Run for Your Life
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Billy had made a career of running, until he met the ODS.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Run For You Life (If You Can)

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: So, once upon a time, **serenity_pen **wondered why there wasn't more Michael fic. I offered to help her out and took on a Michael prompt. Then I sat down to write said prompt. And this happened. It's still sort of the fic she asked for…just not quite like I think she probably wanted. And definitely not like I intended. Still, I hope it helps fulfill the need for more Michael whump in fandom because I tried hard to deliver on that front.

A/N 2: I couldn't have written this without **lena7142**. She basically was there every step of the way and listened to me whine about this fic more than anyone ever should. Then, she beta'ed it. Because yes, she really is amazing like that.

Spoilers: None, except vaguely for Proof of Life because of Carson Simms. This is set preseries. Divided into three parts but all posted today!

Summary: Billy had made a career of running, until he met the ODS.

-o-

When Billy was fourteen, he ran away from home

The reasons why were vague to him now, but he could still remember his indignant thoughts, about how limited he was, about how no one treated him right; about how he could do so much better on his own.

Of course, failing his maths test was another compelling reason. His father had never much tolerated his fanciful notions of how studying was a wasted act for a young boy's ever-evolving psyche.

Whatever the reasons, when things got tough, Billy_ ran._

For a few days, it had been a lovely thing. Wet and hungry though he was, he figured suffering on his own terms was better than enduring uncreative punitive action from others.

Or so he'd thought until the police had picked him up out of an alleyway, shivering with fever and nearly curled up with hunger.

They bundled him in a blanket, gave him something to eat, and told Billy to just sit tight, they'd have him home in no time.

"You're calling my mum?" he asked, a little pathetic.

"That is the idea, son," the cop replied. "You look like a drowned rat, and much longer out there and you'd be catching pneumonia for your troubles."

Billy sunk wearily down. "But I ran away," he mumbled, chewing lazily over the soggy fish and chips he'd been given.

The cop tutted, laughing a little. "Boys always do," he said, starting the car. "When you learn how to tough it out, then we can talk, man to man, yeah?"

Man to man, Billy thought he could tolerate. Hand to ass when he got back home, however, made him think maybe running was still the better option.

-o-

Over the years, Billy had made a career of running.

It was rather important in being a spy, he found. Sure, subterfuge and deception were still the preferred methods of going about the job, but sometimes, when things got difficult, running was the only option left that offered any chance of survival.

And besides, he'd_ literally _made a career of running. When his antics got him drawn up on disciplinary measures in the UK, he'd been offered the chance to go to trial and defend himself. Or he could accept a plea deal that ousted him, disgraced and rejected.

It was perhaps no surprise that Billy had chosen to _run._

Running meant he could rely on himself. If he just went fast enough, far enough, he wouldn't have to face up to the unsavory alternatives that possibly awaited him.

So Billy _ran._

This time, it was cocaine dealers in Venezuela. Nasty bunch, though not overly bright. Billy had nabbed the intel and had seen no need in finessing an exit that could have led to excessive bloodshed. Not when running was a perfectly viable choice.

And especially when Michael had promptly seen their odds and yelled, "Run!"

Billy wasn't great with orders – no one who ended up deported from their homeland was particularly good with orders, he reckoned – but he did appreciate that Michael Dorset gave practical orders. Ones that generally made sense and tended to be for his survival and overall wellbeing.

Which was why Michael Dorset was a relatively easy man to follow, all things considered.

Though, the man was a mite slow, if Billy was honest, because when he told Billy to run, Billy took that quite seriously. By the time they'd got outside the perimeter of the camp, he'd started to out distance the man easily, his longer stride and youth pushing him forward even while Michael's footfalls started to lag behind.

But Billy ran. For the mission, sure. Because it was an order, yes. Because it was his _life._

Farther back, he could still hear the sounds of men yelling, their Spanish punctuated by gunfire.

As if Billy needed more inspiration to go faster.

He pushed on, finding endurance he kept saved for just such occasions, pushing himself onward. Because he needed to survive. He needed to make it out of here alive. He needed to _run._

He hadn't left his career in the UK to die in Venezuela. He hadn't sacrificed everything to fold up and give in over_ cocaine. _Billy was more than happy to serve the greater good, but he'd learned the hard way that if he didn't look out for himself, then no one else would do it for him.

And Michael couldn't complain about that. He'd been the one to teach him that lesson, nearly getting Billy killed on his first day with the CIA. He'd been duped, tricked and blackmailed, and if trust had to be owned in the Agency, that meant it could be sold out just as fast.

True, Billy was grateful for the second chance and all, to actually attempt making something of his life, but his new teammates had hardly been the welcoming sort. They'd subjected Billy to every possible ridicule, subjecting him to the worst possible jobs, often without warning him what to expect. He'd been their lackey, the butt of their not-so-funny jokes, and none of his ideas were ever welcomed with anything but disdain and mockery.

Simms had been better than the rest, which was probably why Michael never let Billy work with Carson. This was why he was assigned to Malick, who treated him like a dog, or why he was kept close to Michael, as though he wasn't to be trusted on his own.

Not that he couldn't entirely see their point, really. Spies didn't trust by default, and Billy was an MI6 reject, so the basis for distrust was clearly there, but _still._

Billy lived in a tiny rented flat and had three suits to his name. He could barely afford his daily needs and drove an unreliable car with seatbelts that didn't even work any more. He missed his mum, his girlfriend had dumped him in a bloody email, and he'd been sitting on a milk crate using a computer from 1989.

So when Michael said to_ run, _Billy _ran _and didn't look back. Because it was an order. Because it was better than staying and dying. Because he didn't doubt that his teammates would run on without him, if given the chance.

Only Billy wasn't about to give them the chance.

Because he could run better than the rest of them.

Moving faster, he gritted his teeth, jumping over the fauna and skirting trees. He made his way over a fallen log, darting forward and veering away, trying to give his pursuers a less visible line to follow.

He couldn't hear Michael now, but trusted that they were both heading due east, toward the drop point with Carson and Malick. Michael was a paranoid bastard; he could take care of himself.

So Billy ran.

Harder, faster, careening through the jungle, heedless of anything. He would survive; he would _run._

He saw the sharp decline, and made a move to avoid it, but his momentum was stronger than he'd expected. He veered abruptly, changing his direction, but as he moved to even out his pace, his foot caught on a rock.

He teetered, trying to right himself, but with his forward motion it was just too much—

Too fast—

And Billy saw the ground coming up to meet him before everything went dark.

-o-

Billy was_ supposed _to be running.

True, he wasn't much for orders, but running was less an order and more of a biological imperative that promoted his long term survival.

So he wanted to be running.

But he wasn't running. He was…falling?

No, because he wasn't moving anymore. He was…still?

Which mean that he was a sitting duck, an easy target, which meant he had to run.

That thought galvanized him and he jolted, coming back to consciousness with a horrifying moment of disorientation. He didn't know how long he'd been out or what exactly had happened. He'd fallen down the hill, he vaguely recalled, he'd missed his step and—

He needed to keep running.

He was so intent on this notion that he fumbled, trying to push himself up—

"Collins, wait—"

But Billy didn't wait. Couldn't wait. And he was halfway up, putting pressure on his leg when—

Pain exploded, ripping through him, lighting his leg on_ fire,_burning up the length of his body and paralyzing him. He flopped back to the ground with a scream, sucking in hard as he choked on a sob, hot tears freely down his face.

Someone swore close to him, shuffling closer and putting a hand on his shoulder while he flailed helplessly in the underbrush. "Quiet, quiet, _quiet,_" Michael hissed. "Just…hold still."

Billy whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as tears continued to fall. The pain was buzzing now, ringing in his ears and throbbing between his temples. He could feel everything, every beat of his heart, the rough brush against the back of his neck, the encompassing agony from somewhere below his right knee.

The hand squeezed again, the voice gentler now. "Just breathe, okay?" he said. "Just clear your head, in and out, in and out…"

Billy was too weak to disobey, pushing out harsh breaths through his nose and doing his best to stop crying as he breathed in again, each one helping to calm him – a little, anyway.

He laid like that, just breathing while Michael coached him, letting himself drift for a long moment in the pain before his head cleared enough for him to think straight and he opened his eyes.

And there was Michael, hovering right above him. He was still holding onto Billy's shoulder and offered him a small, lopsided grin. "You back with me now?"

Billy took a shuddering breath, and fought to regain his sense of composure. He swallowed tremulously and managed a small nod. "What happened?"

Michael gave him a funny look, uncertain and guarded. "You fell."

Billy gritted his teeth and nodded again. "I figured that. How long was I out?"

"A few minutes," Michael said. "You may have a slight concussion but it doesn't look bad."

Billy took a few more breaths. "So we should be running again, yeah?"

Michael's look turned quizzical. "I don't think you're up to it."

Billy frowned, but Michael's gaze flickered downward toward the pulsing pain that was Billy's leg. Billy considered that, and followed the gaze, straining to lift his head enough to see down the length of his body.

At first, he didn't see much. There was no blood – just a few scraps and a nasty rip on his left sleeve – but something was wrong. Something in the dead weight below his waist, in the intense pain that he was just barely keeping at bay.

And then, he understood. Understood the blinding pain, understood the uncontrolled tears. Understood why running, his best form of defense, was no longer a viable option.

Because his leg was twisted, the foot grotesquely askew in the wrong direction, clearly and very badly broken.

-o-

Billy's first instinct was to run.

He was hurt; he was in pain; he was_ scared. _Because there were still people with guns out there, and he needed to get out. He needed to go. And he needed to go _now._

But he couldn't.

He couldn't run. He couldn't even move.

Panic rose in his throat, threatening to suffocate him and he shook his head in desperate denial. "No," he said, pushing himself awkwardly on his elbows. He tried to scoot back frantically. "No, no, no."

Michael sat back a little, hand falling away, but he still hovered. "You're going to want to be still—"

But Billy didn't want to be still. He wanted to run. He wanted to get away from this and get away from this now. His leg couldn't be broken because if his leg was broken, then he couldn't run. Then he was stuck here. He was stuck here to_ die._

And Billy didn't want to die. So he couldn't have a broken leg. It wasn't that bad. He could make it work, he could—

His backward movement jarred his leg against a rock and the world whited out. When he came to, he was being propped up against Michael, one arm steadying him around his heaving chest, the other pressed across his mouth.

"Seriously," Michael said, voice close to his ear. "You need to be_ still._"

There was a quiet urgency in Michael's voice; this wasn't an order of contrivance or whim. It was an order of necessity.

Billy tensed, his entire body trembling as fresh tears flowed down his face. He wanted to fight, but Michael's grip was too secure and his leg ached—

And voices.

Farther away. Footfalls and calls and—

Billy's breath hitched, heart skipping a beat. Their pursuers were coming.

"We're going to lie back now," Michael told him, voice low and almost soundless. "The brush is thick here and the best route is at the top of the ridge, so they're not going to come this way unless we give them a reason. If you move, you'll give them a reason. Do you understand?"

Billy blinked rapidly, but finally nodded.

Carefully, Michael shifted, releasing his hold on Billy's mouth as he moved slightly, lowering Billy down. This time, Billy didn't resist as Michael placed him on the ground. Quickly, Michael moved, lying next to Billy, his back facing up the ridge, partially obscuring Billy's exposed form from the view above. Their jackets were neutral, easily blending into the surroundings. With the thicket, they might have a chance.

Or they might not.

Panic threatened to choke him again and Billy closed his eyes, grinding his teeth together so hard that his jaw hurt. Michael was pressed closed to him, and Billy could feel his even breaths, hot against his face.

But Billy didn't move. He didn't dare move.

The voices above got closer, the scuffling almost on top of them. Billy flinched despite his best efforts, a low whimper in the back of his throat. Michael's breathing caught just slightly in response, as if to remind Billy that he wasn't alone.

As if Billy believed that.

Still, Michael didn't waver, and after a moment, the voices started to fade, the footfalls dissipating.

Moving on, moving out.

Until the only sound was Michael's breathing and Billy's own pounding heart.

-o-

It was hard to say how much time had passed, but the minutes had slipped by in the tense stillness. When Michael finally sat up, Billy was lightheaded and nauseous, leg feeling wooden with the unrelenting pain.

On his knees, Michael gave Billy a quick once over. "You okay?"

Billy swallowed shakily, eyes blinking rapidly. "My leg," he croaked.

Michael nodded grimly. "Yeah," he said. "You did a number on it."

Tentative, Billy lifted his head, looking down again. Calmer this time, the sight was no less unsettling. The bottom of his pant leg seemed to be taught, the hot, swollen flesh underneath making it tight. His foot was askew, and despite the fiery pain in his shin, the foot itself felt as though it wasn't there at all.

Whimpering, Billy dropped his head back, working to keep his breathing in check with only marginal success. "I broke my bloody _leg,_" he repeated, his hands curling into fists on the jungle floor, pounding lightly in frustration. The implications became suddenly clear to him. A broken leg could just as well be a death sentence. He was like a lame horse, no good for anyone. Only there was likely no one around who would kindly put a gun to his head and finish the job.

Billy paled, glancing over at Michael. Or maybe there was.

He squeezed his eyes closed at the thought, fresh tears slipping out. He'd fallen, broken his leg, fumbled the mission. Maybe MI6 had been right to boot him; he was a screw up, and this proved it. A second chance and no more than six months in and he'd broken his leg. It was pathetic; it was probably typical.

Michael was scuffling about in the brush next to him, and Billy opened his eyes, suddenly afraid. Michael was checking his supplies, zipping up his pack.

Getting ready to leave.

Billy couldn't blame him for that. After all, when Billy had been running, he hadn't looked back. Hadn't bothered. If Michael had gone down, Billy probably wouldn't have even noticed. Billy was a part of the team, but he was still the new guy. He was pretty sure Casey didn't even know his first name yet, and Michael seemed to watch every move he made, waiting for a chance to exploit his errors or simply tell him how wrong he was.

And Carson was just happy for someone else to be the butt of jokes for once.

And Billy deserved it. Because he'd been running so fast to save his life that he'd effectively killed himself with one misstep.

Billy swallowed. "You'll come back?" he asked, daring to hope.

Michael paused, frowning at him. "I wasn't aware I was going."

Surprised, Billy stared at him for a moment. "But when they realize they've lost the trail, they'll double back," he said. "We won't be lucky twice."

Michael smiled wryly. "I didn't realize we'd been lucky yet," he mused.

Billy kept staring. "But…"

"But I was just seeing if I had anything for you to bite down on," Michael explained, putting his pack aside. He shrugged, undoing his belt. "I know this isn't perfect, but it's the best I have."

Dumbly, Billy blinked, entirely confounded. "You're going to strangle me with your belt?" he asked. "Wouldn't shooting me be easier? Or just leave me the gun and I can do it myself."

Michael gave him a funny look. "That seems a little drastic."

Drastic, perhaps. But Billy had a broken leg in a remote region of Venezuela. If the angry drug dealers didn't come back and behead him, he'd be found by a military sweep and disappeared into a prison system or flaunted as a political pawn. Billy wasn't walking out of here; he wasn't running out of here. To his mind, there was no other way out, least not one that wasn't a bit more permanent.

"I'm as good as dead out here," he said, breath hitching as the starkness of the reality gripped him. It was oddly settling, numbing the burning pain receptors with cold understanding. "We're miles from the drop point, and there's no way Casey and Simms will get here in time before our friends double back. Leaving me here alive just means I'll be captured. So there's not really any option left."

At that, Michael smiled. He moved forward, belt in hand. Billy flinched despite himself. He liked to think he was braver than that, but time had proven otherwise. Michael paused but kept moving, holding it out. "You'll need something to bite on."

Billy frowned. "Why?"

"Because when I set your leg, it's going to hurt," he said. "A lot."

Billy's brow furrowed. "But…"

"Your desire to die for the CIA is very noble," Michael told him. "But I think it may be a little premature."

"But I can't _walk,_" Billy reminded him. "I'm literally dead weight. You have to leave me."

Michael shook his head. "We'll talk about that later," he said, still holding out the belt. "_After _I set your leg."

Billy didn't know what to say. Didn't know what to do. But it wasn't like he had any other options. Crippled as he was, he was at Michael Dorset's mercy – for better or for worse. If he had the perverted notion to torture Billy before leaving him to his own devices, that was the man's business. Maybe he thought he'd give Billy a fighting chance. Spy agencies were funny like that; they screwed you over while giving you so-called tools to survive. MI6 threatened to put him in prison for the rest of the life or gave him the chance to start again.

Michael would set his leg, maybe in the insane hope that he could carry his own feeble weight out.

Choices that weren't, it seemed, and yet, Billy could only comply. He'd taken the plea deal; he'd joined the CIA. And reluctantly, he opened his mouth, letting Michael place the worn leather between his teeth.

When it was positioned, Michael sat back, seemingly satisfied, before he turned his attention to Billy's misshapen leg. Wincing, the older operative ran his fingers gently down the leg, and Billy hissed protectively, starting to tremble again as Michael carefully palpated the clearly broken bone.

Frowning, Michael gripped the bottom of Billy's pant leg, ripping it quick and clean. It jostled Billy, not much, but enough to make him yelp, biting down instinctively on the hot leather in his mouth. The exposed skin seemed to prickle, pain receptors objecting to the fresh onslaught.

His breathing got heavy as Michael's fingers trailed on the skin where the bone was clearly jutting awkwardly, pulling it unnaturally taut.

Michael studied it for a moment longer, nodding to himself. "Okay," he said, moving around to Billy's foot. He looked up at Billy. "You know, I was premed for a while."

"Oh?" Billy asked around the belt, feeling vaguely hopeful suddenly. "So you know what you're doing?"

"Not really," Michael said, brow furrowed. "I liked the theory, but not so much the application."

Billy felt his heart stutter, his brow crinkling in a sudden cold fear. "But—"

There was no time to finish his statement. There was no time for anything. Because Michael gripped his ankle, pulling hard and steady. The first yank made Billy's world explode, his entire body seizing, teeth grinding hopelessly into the leather until the taste of the warm fibers filled his mouth. The intensity usurped his control and he was crying and screaming, flailing desperately, begging around the belt for reprieve, for anything—

Instead, Michael pulled again, and Billy could_ feel _the bones grating, the sound clicking into his consciousness and pulsating hotly through his body like a roaring, uncontrolled flash fire of agony that stole his breath. When the wave reached his head, the blood pounded in his ears until the darkness overtook him.

-o-

This time, Billy remembered. On his back, he had a vague sense that time had passed, but when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. The jungle was dense and hot around him, and Billy was still helpless on his back, his leg broken.

And Michael was still there, sitting next to him, watching him with a curious expression.

Billy swallowed, finding his throat painfully dry. The small movement made his head ache, his consciousness still tenuous as he took uncertain breaths.

"Hey," Michael said. "Welcome back."

Billy winced but made no further effort to move. "If this is a welcome party, mate, you Americans need to work on your hospitality."

Michael grinned. "Good to see your injury hasn't impaired your total lack of gratitude."

Billy closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing with difficulty. He let himself breathe for a few long seconds, before opening his eyes again. "How long?"

Michael shrugged. "You've been out for about twenty minutes," he said. "Gave me time to finish with your leg."

At the mention, pain flared again. Billy lifted his head, squinting as he looked down. The pant leg was entirely tattered now, strips being used to tie a large stick into place, serving as a makeshift splint. The tight knots put pressure on the leg, but with the overwhelming pain, it was hard to differentiate one infliction from another.

He dropped his head back again, sighing as he looked toward Michael. "I reckon thanks are in order," he said.

"Well, we're not out of here yet," Michael said.

Billy nodded, suddenly aware of the jungle around the again. "We probably don't have long before they come back," he said. He sucked in a shuddering breath, trying to control the pain even as his chest ached with the effort. "You probably need to get moving."

Michael gave him a funny look again, but he didn't disagree. "We'll get to that point," he said. "First, let's take care of you."

He said it simply, matter of fact, as though time wasn't of the essence. As if angry drug dealers wouldn't be doubling back with every intention to kill them – and sitting there, at the bottom of the hill, they were still defenseless.

Still, Michael seemed intently oblivious to such danger. This was perhaps not entirely unexpected. The ODS had a habit of being nonsensical and illogical, though usually they made such choices with their own self preservation in mind. After all, Billy's second mission had had him playing bait, unarmed and unconscious, giving the bad guys enough pause to see if he was still alive before the rest of the ODS had disarmed and arrested them.

This might have seemed heroic, except for the small fact that Casey had choked Billy out and left him in said state to begin with.

Billy's well being was a tenuous, expendable thing. MI6 thought so; the ODS was no different.

So why was Michael _still _there?

Playing doctor, nursemaid…

Michael unscrewed a bottle of water, holding it out.

And now playing mother hen, too.

Billy eyed it, skeptical.

"It's not poisoned," Michael said.

Billy still looked at it.

Michael rolled his eyes, taking a quick drink and making a point of swallowing before holding out the bottle again.

So it wasn't likely to be poison. Unless Michael had somehow built up an immunity to whatever he might use to dose Billy, but that seemed unlikely, even for the ODS.

Well, for Michael anyway. Billy had his doubts regarding Casey.

But that was entirely to be expected considering the fact that the man was probably the closest thing to a genuine psychopath that Billy had ever met – on either side of the law.

Besides, Billy was thirsty. In fact, he was almost parched. So risking a sip might be well worth it.

Defeated, he reached out, taking the bottle from Michael. As he brought it close, he found his hands shaking, and when he looked down, his vision blurred uncomfortably as he attempted to unscrew the cap.

Working his jaw, he did his best not to show his troubles. It was agonizing work, and he still managed to splash some of the water down his chin, but when he was done, he screwed the cap back on and held the bottle back out.

"Thanks," he said, hoping that he didn't sound as breathless as he felt.

Taking the bottle, Michael gave him a wary look. This might be bothersome if Michael wasn't habitually fixing him with such looks, as though he was always assessing Billy's status – on missions, during briefings, when Billy first walked in to the moment he walked out each night. That was what Michael did. He _assessed._

And Billy had yet to pass muster.

Still, Billy was an MI6 reject so he wasn't sure what he expected, though he was fairly certain daily flagellation at the hands of his so-called teammates had not been part of the plea bargain he'd agreed to. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and Billy knew that, but there he was, broken leg in the Venezuelan jungle with angry dealers set to return, and Billy wasn't begging or choosing. He was simply at the mercy of Michael Dorset.

None of this boded well.

He swallowed, feeling conspicuous. And horribly vulnerable. If there was anything worse than falling down and smashing his leg, it was falling down, smashing his leg and enduring a strange sort of analytic sympathy before being duly left behind to die.

With a shuddering breath, Billy sought to regain some composure. If humiliation and death were inevitable, some self-respect was all he had left. Swallowing again, he nodded, wetting his lips. "Right, then," he said, matter of fact. "So I reckon that's about all you can do. I might be able to hobble along…"

Michael shook his head. "That's a bad break," he said. "You'll never get very far."

The simple pronouncement made Billy's stomach roil and he felt his composure waver. His jaw trembled and he resisted the inexplicable urge to cry. This was his own fault; his own mess: he couldn't play the victim. He wouldn't.

He gave a shaky laugh instead. "Seems like it may be worth the try, I think," he said. "I mean, I could stay here, but a rescue mission would be too dangerous – no sense in risking any more operatives when we have the intel we need. Granted, the odds aren't good either way, but seems wrong to lay down and die."

"I agree," Michael said. "But you're forgetting a third option."

Billy blinked, fumbling for an answer but coming up with nothing. The pain was making him weak, slowing his mental processes as most of his energy was diverted into the simple act of staying conscious.

"You can't walk on your own," he said. "But I can help you."

"You've already splinted it—"

"No, I mean, you can lean on me," Michael said. He shrugged. "A human crutch. It'll be a little awkward but it should work out okay."

Billy stared at him, wondering if in his pain he had become delusional without realizing it. The world had taken on a surreal tint, this was true, but there was something staunchly realistic that he couldn't shake. As if Michael had actually just made such an offer.

Billy snorted. "I'll slow you down," he said. "Chances are, they'll catch us both and we'll have got nowhere for the trouble."

Michael eased a shoulder up. "Or we might both make it out of here alive," he said. "Seems like it's worth a try."

In theory, there was something appealing about that. Brothers in arms, and all such things. After all, they_ were _teammates, and the whole point of teammates was to work together to achieve the preferable end.

But they were spies. Bloody spooks. They weren't soldiers in the battlefield where blood was tested and the bonds were strengthened. The world of espionage was backstabbing and subterfuge; you lied to your enemies, you lied to your friends. You used anyone who was useful, no matter who they were or who they worked for. Loyalty was a strange concept, too tenuous to matter. Spies burned each other; spies used any means to achieve their ends.

This was how Billy had ended up here in the first place. This was why he'd been unceremoniously fired by MI6 and why he hadn't taken the high road to clear his name. This was why his team had used and abused him, and why Billy had been running without a thought to Michael's safety.

Because spies were the epitome of lone wolves. They could work together for as long as it was convenient.

It was no longer convenient. Billy would slow Michael down; he could get Michael killed.

For a moment, Billy kept his eyes on Michael, who showed no signs of wavering. "You're kidding."

Michael didn't even blink. "That'd be kind of cruel, wouldn't it?"

Cruel would be drugging and ditching him. Cruel would be leaving him on the need to know so he almost got his head blown off. Cruel would be sending him into briefings with no background and expecting him to work miracles with the director, who could barely stomach his presence.

His team had been nothing_ but _cruel to him.

So maybe it was a joke. And that was the ultimate cruelty. Let Billy believe there was a chance, that he wouldn't be abandoned and left, just to make it even more horrendous when he found himself injured, delirious and alone.

Except…

"You're really serious?" Billy asked.

Michael rolled his eyes, getting to his feet. Billy watched, still waiting for him to leave as he crossed in front of Billy.

But then he stopped, offering down his hand.

Billy gaped at it.

Michael held his gaze, hand still out. "I'm ready when you are."

Billy wasn't sure he was ready, but he knew he wasn't ready to die. Selfish to the end, Billy would let himself be a hypocrite and an undeserving bastard as he took the proffered hand and let himself be hoisted up.

-o-

Even with the hand up, getting to his feet was a difficult task. The instant he moved his leg, pain erupted with renewed intensity, and Billy blacked out for a moment, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut as he desperately sought to control it.

But he did control it, if only because he had to. Michael was helping him, but Billy couldn't be so foolish as to think that was an infinite extension of grace. Billy would have to carry most of his own weight, as it were, or he'd find himself back on the ground. And Michael was right – he wouldn't make it far on his own. Staying awake and staying upright was his only chance of survival.

It wasn't easy, though. Even after the pain had abated to levels he could control, he still felt shaky and weak, his stomach churning uncomfortably and his head swimming. He was upright, but listing heavily despite his best efforts, putting more weight than he wanted to on Michael's apparently willing shoulders.

"Just give yourself a moment," Michael coached, voice soft even as his fingers tightened under Billy's arm. "When you think you're good, let me know."

Billy didn't think he'd ever _be _good. Not with his leg busted, his pride damaged and his survival pinned so tenuously on the benevolence of the ODS. Not with a deportation notice and a job dependent on results and angry drug dealers trying to kill him. Not with his mum still crying every time he called, with his friends not taking his calls, and his girlfriend dating his sniveling roommate and telling the world that Billy was a pathetic dolt who had never been worth her time.  
_  
Nothing _was good.

Maybe this was part of Michael's next phase of torture. Kill him with kindness.

The pain still coursing through him, it seemed plausible enough.

But only if Billy let himself die. Broken leg, damaged pride, sadistic team leader all aside, he was alive. If he could move, then he had a chance.

Pain, humiliation, utter misery: it was a chance he'd take.

That resolution firmly in mind, he sucked in another breath, opening his eyes and putting the pain to the back of his consciousness. The jungle was a little blurry around the edges and his head was buzzing, but he felt mostly coherent.

Mostly ready.

Or as ready as he could be.

Bracing himself, he ground his teeth together, nodding in short, curt movements. "Okay," he said. "I think I'm ready."

Michael craned his head, looking at Billy. "You sure?"

Billy was nauseated and in blinding pain while using a man he hardly trusted as a crutch while on the run from drug dealers in the Venezuelan jungle. Billy was sure of nothing, except that he needed to move.

Even if he couldn't run, he needed to move.

"As much as I can be," Billy confirmed, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

Michael seemed vaguely impressed. "Okay, then," he said. "Let's go."

And Billy hoped it was that easy.

-o-

It was a slow, staggering walk. Billy took each step tentatively, breathing in hard with every movement in a futile attempt to control the pain. He managed not to whimper, but every step was agony, igniting renewed pain through his leg, sending shafts of misery up his body and turning his stomach. The nausea made him want to fold over; the constant motion made him want to cry.

He kept going. It went against his instincts, but he needed Michael. At first, he tried to minimize the amount of weight he shifted toward the team leader, but after a few paces, it had become painfully evident that such restraint would not be possible. His leg felt wooden and too large, moving awkwardly, bumping on the ground at unexpected times. There was nothing to be done for it, and he was forced to concede that without Michael, he'd be curled up on the ground and helpless.

Though sometimes, that sounded appealing to Billy. Helplessness, not so much, but curling up on the ground. Because moving hurt and his entire body felt like it was fraying at the seams, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could do this.

Or if he should bother at all. What was he fighting for? Was his life even worth the effort? Would anyone even miss him if he were gone? Maybe he was just prolonging the inevitable. Torturing himself needlessly. Maybe he should have eaten a bullet before the bloody review board could sack him and spare himself the trouble.

The_ pain._

"You know, this reminds me of my first mission," Michael said suddenly, his voice oddly conversational and light.

Billy blinked, feeling sluggish as he attempted to hoist his leg over a branch. "Breaking your leg while being chased by angry drug dealers?" Billy huffed out, too tired to be incredulous.

Michael chuckled softly, unconsciously hefting Billy closer to help him clear it. "No," he said. "I mean, Venezuela. My first mission was in Venezuela."

Breathing, Billy squinted, trying to clear his vision as they made their way along the bottom of the incline. It felt like they had been moving for hours, in a state of endless drudgery. Billy was sweating profusely, his stomach still threatening to rebel.

He swallowed. "And how did it turn out?"

Michael hesitated. "Honestly? Not the best," he said. "My team leader told me it was something of a learning experience."

Billy snorted. "Somehow, that's not very encouraging," he said, chest heaving.

"I'm still alive, aren't I?" Michael mused. "That counts for something."

"It depends what you learned, though," Billy said, sucking in harshly as his leg clipped the ground. "I mean, was that the first mission that taught you how to be a paranoid, sadistic bastard?"

"Oh, sadistic," Michael said. "That's a new one. I admit, I get paranoid a lot. And bastard more than I should. But just don't throw the sadistic one to my wife. She'd love to use that one against me."

"You sound like you're enjoying this," Billy said, breathing heavily as he labored across the ground.

"Hey, I've been on worse missions," Michael told him, shrugging.

"Well that's easy for you to say, mate," Billy snapped. "You're not the one with the bloody broken leg walking through the jungle with no painkillers."

"No," Michael said. "But I'm the hauling your ass and leaving myself totally exposed to angry drug dealers. So I'm not so sure it's easy at all."

Billy frowned, but didn't reply, because Michael had a point. This was Billy's fault; Billy needed Michael and Michael had no reason to stay…

"Why are you doing this anyway?" Billy asked. "If you're so keen on leaving me behind, then why don't you just stop postponing the inevitable?"

"Because I've already had one learning experience in Venezuela," Michael grunted. "I don't need another."

Billy's frown deepened. He was about to ask what lesson he might learn – perhaps the best way to create dependency in new operatives or the most innovative techniques for stripping other people of their sense of worth – but he never got the chance.

Because his foot slipped, giving out. Michael tried to catch him, but Billy's bad leg hit the ground hard. The sharp, driving pain doubled him over and he went down – the impact enough to blind him. Everything went dark, pain eclipsing his consciousness, the fire spread and burning—

His stomach couldn't take it anymore. It rebelled, violently turning, twisting inside out until he was heaving, pulling up the contents of his stomach in hot, acrid bile—

Someone caught him, a hand on his shoulder an arm across his chest, but Billy was almost senseless to it as his stomach churned again, bringing up more acid. It burned his lips and he spit, retching again until he was reduced to dry heaves.

When it was over, Billy's body ached and he fell back unresistingly into the arms around him. His eyes were open, but he couldn't see. The lights and colors didn't make sense. His ears were ringing and his senses were delayed; Michael's voice was slow and distorted, words incomprehensible even as Billy recognized the cadence by his head.

He wanted to answer; he wanted to stay awake; he wanted to keep his control. If he gave up, he didn't know what would happen. If he surrendered, then he had no guarantees.

He didn't know.

And he couldn't hold on.

The grip around him tightened and Billy slipped into darkness.

-o-

This time, Billy knew time had passed. His senses were muted, dulled by the cloying grip of unconsciousness. The pain was still there, ever-present and persistent, but the sharpness had effused into a general misery that permeated his entire being.

Mostly, he wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to just close his eyes, drift away and let what come whatever the worst might be. He was hurt and scared and humiliated and alone—

Something shifted near him, a small sound for a small movement.

Not alone then.

"You think you're ready to stop sleeping on the job?" Michael asked. The tone was light, but still somehow pointed.

Squinting his eyes open, Billy glared. "I don't recall asking you to stay," he muttered, tongue thick in his dry mouth.

Sitting nearby, pack next to him, Michael lifted his eyebrows. "I took your passing out as an implicit request for help."

Billy had no defense against that, so he didn't bother. Instead, he sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. When he opened his eyes again, his consciousness was firmer, if only because the pain was more acute. "I didn't realize spies were in the habit of giving charity outside the boundaries of a mission. What was it you told me my first day on the job? Trust isn't earned within the Agency? It's owned."

The funny look returned to Michael's face.

Billy hummed a little, shifting slightly, his jaw working against the pain. "Is that what this is? A little additional emotional leverage to make me stay in line? Since all you've done to me so far isn't enough? Are you taking photos on the side? Documenting things for it all? Because I have to tell you, posting them won't get you much. Most people about the Agency already have a low opinion of me. A little extra fodder can hardly worsen my standing."

"You know, a simple thank you would be sufficient," Michael said. "Monologuing isn't necessary."

Billy grunted. "Necessary? Like bugging my flat?"

Michael didn't flinch. "We're spies," he said. "That's what we do."

"But then you posted the live feed to the CIA breakroom!" Billy exclaimed, his frustration peaking. His body tensed and he bit back a cry, settling back down meagerly.

This time, Michael had the decency to look chagrined. "Okay, you may have a point there," he said. "But I'll have you know, most people were entertained by your full-on cover of 'Hey Jude.'"

It was probably supposed to be a joke. It sounded like a joke. But it wasn't funny. Nothing was funny. It hadn't been funny when it had happened, and it wasn't funny now. Not when Billy was barely getting by, not when Billy didn't know where he fit in with this so-called team, not when he couldn't go home, not when he had broken his bloody leg in the middle of the jungle.

It just _wasn't funny._

Gritting his teeth, Billy turned his eyes to the canopy of leaves, refusing to acknowledge the sting of tears. It was the pain, he told himself. It was the_pain._

He blew out a breath, hot and bitter. "Take your bloody pictures then and just go," he said.

"You think it's that simple?" Michael asked.

Billy turned his eyes, eyes narrowing with distrust. "And how's it so complicated?" he said, with heaving breaths now. The pain was mounting again, and with his growing exhaustion, he didn't know how to fully contain the burgeoning emotions. "I screwed up. I fell down the hill. I broke my leg. You've done more than required by getting me this far, so just_ go._"

He seethed the order, almost spitting the words, desperate.

Michael watched him. Calculating, but not quite cold. "We'll go when you're ready," he said evenly. He paused, eyes not wavering. "Together."

Billy groaned. "My leg is_ broken._"

"I know," Michael replied. "I set it."

"Then you also know that I can't walk on it," Billy said. "They're going to come back. Sooner rather than later. You're going to get yourself killed if you hang around here with me."

"And you'll probably get killed if I leave you," Michael countered.

"And somehow this matters to you now?" Billy asked. "You've left me in harm's way more times than I can count and I've hardly been at the CIA for three months. If my well being has been a concern of yours, then I'm afraid you have a funny way of showing it."

The speech left him spent, the entire exchange wearing away at Billy's increasingly tenuous control. The pain was getting difficult to hold back now, and his emotions were fraying with the exertion. Normally he could keep his confusion in check – and that was important, given the sundry confusions he faced on a daily basis with the ODS – but with his energy leeching out of his body, all that was left were his pathetic vulnerabilities.

And Michael sat there, pack at his side, just _staring. _Watching. There was no malice, no glee. If Billy didn't know better, he might attribute it all to concern.

Except Billy _did _know better.

Didn't he?

Michael shrugged. "You're right," he said.

Billy's forehead scrunched up. His ability to think was slowly being compromised, but he hadn't thought he was so far gone yet. "What?"

"We do have a funny way of showing most things," he said. He offered a small, half smile. "I might call it part of our charm, but I have a feeling you'd disagree."

Billy could only stare back, mouth hanging open as he tried to understand. With the ongoing pain, Billy might have thought himself numb, impervious to further shocks, but he would have been wrong.

Because Michael Dorset was surprising him yet.

It figured, though; Billy was wrong about a lot of things in life.

"But I'm not leaving you," Michael said flatly. "So we go together."

-o-

Together.

It was apparently Michael Dorset's new mantra. After weeks of tormenting Billy, of reducing him to humiliation, of teasing him with the possibility of being fired and deported_ again, _now the paranoid bastard was a firm believer in the_ leave no man behind _mentality.

It might be encouraging – hell, it might be funny – if it made any damn sense whatsoever.

To be fair, Billy wasn't exactly functioning at full capacity. The gnawing pain was taking a toll on his ability to think clearly, and it seemed to take more effort than he had to expend just to keep moving forward, pace after limping pace. Even then, he had to lean heavily on Michael, half squashing the man with his listing, but there was nothing to be done for it. If Michael was intent on dragging Billy along, this was the way it had to be.

Painful. Miserable. Confusing._ Exhausting._

Each step was a monumental task that Billy dreaded. Throwing his weight to one side, he had to pull his broken leg up just enough to try to keep it from scraping on the ground. The effort was excessively tiring, and he was dripping with sweat, half blind from the pain as he had no choice but to trust Michael to lead them.

And then when his leg_ did _hit the ground – which was agonizingly often – Billy was almost reduced to tears, breathing through a tight chest and constricted throat. His pride was probably a lost cause, and he could no longer tell if the wetness on his face was sweat, tears or both.

Yet, Michael didn't mention it. He didn't flinch when Billy bore down on him, didn't snort derisively when Billy buried his head at Michael's shoulder, sobbing against the pain he couldn't control or avoid.

He wanted to stop. He wanted to curl up on the ground and just sleep. If he died, that might be preferable.

But that apparently wasn't an option. Not with Michael, still there. Not with the idea of survival still too glaringly close to reject. It was pathetic, he supposed, being half dragged by the man who had dedicated himself to destroying Billy's already tattered reputation and grinding the remains of his fledgling career into dust. Just like it was pathetic to take a plea deal and leave with his tail tucked between his legs, with everyone back home thinking he was nothing but a coward and a traitor.

He was a coward and a traitor, though. Not in the way his country thought, but by taking the deal, he'd proven it. Just like he was proving it now, limping along, dependent, pathetic and—

"We're making good time," Michael said, thoughts cutting through Billy's bitter ruminations.

"Have we missed the drop yet?" Billy managed to ask, breathing raggedly.

"Not yet," Michael said. "We're still a few miles out, though."

Billy winced. "So we have a few miles, the drug dealers are likely to return, and Carson and Casey don't even know to look for us yet?"

Michael seemed to shrug, an infinitesimal movement as he shouldered Billy's weight. "The farther we get, the better."

Billy had learned the art of reticence when it came to the ODS, where everything he said could and was used against him for no other reason than it seemed like fun to pick on the Scottish reject. But his normal self-control was gone – along with his pride and dignity –so he laughed outright.

"Something funny, Collins?"

Almost wheezing now, Billy laughed again. "As if it could get any worse!"

Michael was silent for a moment, face darkening even as he pulled Billy another step. "Our angry friends haven't come back yet, at least."

"You almost sound disappointed," Billy mused, feeling almost hysterical now. "I mean, is that it? That's why I'm still here? You want me as bait? Maybe throw me to the wolves when they show up so you have a fighting chance of making it out alive?"

"You really think I'm dragging your ass along for that?" he asked. "That's the stupidest way to get us both killed."

"I never said it was a good plan!" Billy exclaimed, lurching unsteadily. "I merely fail to see how you think pulling me along is any advantage at all? What, is there an Agency-wide bet about how long I'll last and your date isn't up yet?"

"You really think that?" Michael asked, as if there was reason to doubt.

But there wasn't any reason to doubt. Billy wasn't wanted in this team, and so Michael's sudden benevolence wasn't just strange, it was confounding. Maybe being a spy had made Billy paranoid too, but the possibilities were endless, and now that he had started, Billy was finding it hard to stop. It was all tumbling out: every emotion, every doubt, every frustration.

What was the point of holding it back, anyway? What was the likelihood of him even surviving? Did he even _want _to go back? To an Agency that didn't trust him, to a flat that didn't feel like home, to a life that would never make him happy?

He was lonely. He was scared. He was ashamed. And now he was hurt.

And for what?

Breath hitching, Billy shook his head.

He took another grating breath, and kept talking, too worked up to stop now. "Or maybe it's just the bloody paperwork if I die overseas? Or do you just not want to give up your convenient Agency lackey just yet? Or—"

"Hey—" Michael interjected. "Quiet—"

Billy grunted, almost drunkenly now. "Why? Because what? I'm hurting your bloody feelings? Because—"

The words were smothered, cut short when Michael pressed a sweaty hand over Billy's mouth.

Shocked, Billy flailed, breathing sharply through his noise and squawking in protest.

"Because I think they're back," Michael hissed, voice low in Billy's ear.

His train of thought was cut short, and suddenly he was acutely aware of the sounds around him. The sudden stillness, the faint rustling of leaves. Then, voices in Spanish, Michael's breath hot on his ear, his own heart thudding in his chest.

"They're coming," Michael said.

Billy blinked, the anger giving way to fear. It was easy to talk about, but he didn't want to die. If he had, he would have been dead already. Billy survived, even when he shouldn't, and he wanted to survive now. For another chance, for_ anything. _

Louder voices, moving closer.

Billy's heart quickened, and he found himself breathing hard around Michael's hand as they stood stock still in the jungle.

"Do you trust me?" Michael asked.

He blinked furiously, and there were fresh tears again. Billy shook his head.

Michael sighed. "Well," he said. "Now's the time to start."

Billy frowned, confused, but there was no time to indulge it. Not when Michael flung him to the ground. Pain erupted and he couldn't help but cry out, cursing at the overwhelming intensity as he writhed helplessly.

It was too much. And as the blackness came, he heard shouts in the distance, and the sounds of gunfire dissipating into his unconsciousness.

-o-

This time, consciousness was slow in coming. He hovered just below it, fighting doggedly, although it occurred to him that he wasn't sure if he wanted to pass out again or finally ascend.

It turned out, however, that the choice wasn't his to make. That shouldn't have been surprising, even if it was ever so unpleasant.

"Come on, Collins," Michael said, sounding gruff and tired. "I know you like to be difficult, but it really is okay to wake up now."

Billy opened his eyes so he could glare. "That's easy for you to say," he muttered.

Michael stared back at him, nonplussed from his seat on the edge of the slope. "You would think so."

Billy blinked, his eyes clearing, and he realized that maybe he'd spoken prematurely. Because Michael certainly looked worse than Billy remembered, hair a complete mess and face freshly bruised. There was a cut on his cheek weeping blood and his hair was matted behind his ear. There was a tear in his shirt and a small bloody streak at his side, his fist bloody and torn in front of him.

Swallowing tentatively, Billy realized he was on his back now, propped up by a pack. He didn't know how long he'd been out, but the sun seemed lower; the jungle settled back into its normal rhythm.

The sounds of footfalls were gone; there were no more voices. The gunfire…

Wetting his lips, he asked, "What happened?"

Michael shrugged. "I took care of it."

Billy was foggy with pain, plainly disoriented by exhaustion, and simply too overworked to be certain of his own point of view, but Michael's plain answer didn't make sense. "You took care of it?" he asked.

Michael nodded.

"You took care of a group of bloodthirsty, vengeful drug dealers, intent on killing us?" Billy clarified.

"You don't have to sound so surprised," Michael quipped.

Billy gaped. "But…how?"

Michael's expression softened just slightly. "It was your idea, actually."

Billy was still too slow on the uptake.

Michael looked a little chagrined. "I figured if they heard you yelling, I could circle around and pick them off," he said.

Brow furrowed, Billy's stomach dropped. "You used me as bait!"

"Well, I knew you'd be pretty out of it," Michael said. "And they're a pretty amoral group but they're not going to shoot an unarmed man writhing in pain. You played your part very well."

Billy stared. He was suddenly glad he'd been unconscious, though less glad that he'd bothered to wake up. "So you…killed them?"

Michael snorted. "Does that bother you?"

"No," Billy said. "I just…" He frowned. "You really used me as bait?"

"I only went up the ridge and hid," Michael said. "I knocked off as many as I could before they even got down the hill and took the rest out before they got to you. They were never close."

Billy tried to process that. Tried to understand.

He failed.

"And they're not dead," Michael said, as if that was some kind of assurance. "But they are disarmed and tied to trees until we can call a tip in to the local police. Rule of law may be hit or miss here sometimes, but drug dealers aren't good for the local economy, so I think they'll know what to do with our friends."

Billy blinked. It sounded good. It sounded great, actually. It sounded damn near perfect. Michael had taken a blown mission and turned it into an unprecedented success. He'd saved Billy's life, he'd nabbed the intel,_ and _he'd subdued the threat for the benefit of the local population and the stability of the world.

Michael Dorset wasn't just a team leader or paranoid bastard.

He was an honest to God hero.

As if Billy needed more reasons to hate him.

"Anyway," Michael said, getting to his feet and coming closer. "I was just waiting for you to wake up—"

His voice cut off as he approached. Kneeling next to Billy, he frowned, pressing a cold hand to Billy's forehead. "You've picked up a fever."

Billy huffed, shuddering. That explained why things felt so funny, why his limbs tingled and his vision kept going dim around the edges.

Michael shifted, producing a bottle of water. He unscrewed it, holding it out.

It took Billy a moment to focus on it, a moment longer to realize that Michael was offering it to him.

Mind still foggy, Billy did his best to reach out, but he found his movements uncoordinated. He missed once, brow furrowed, and tried again. When he fumbled, Michael eased closer, moving the bottle to Billy's mouth. "Here," he said. "Just drink slow."

Disoriented as he was, Billy still frowned. But before he could protest, the bottle was pressed to his lips, tipped back, tepid water trickling over his mouth. Just like that, he realized his thirst, opening his lips and drinking.

It was a messy, awkward process, but when Michael finally took the bottle and recapped it, Billy felt marginally improved. His senses were less dull; his mind was more clear.

Which meant he could feel the aching pain in his leg again.

Which reminded him of their situation.

Which was suddenly greatly improved.

"So," Billy said, pushing himself up a little. He paused, gritting his teeth in pain as he sat up, easing himself back against a tree. "It looks like things are squared away."

"They should be, once we hook up with Casey and Carson again," Michael said. He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which, we should start out again. That is, if you're up to it."

Billy shook his head. "You've subdued the enemy," he said. "Why would you bother dragging me along?"

Michael laughed. "Because you've got a badly broken leg and the start of an infection," he said wryly. "Our friends may be tied up, but that's no guarantee. Plus, if anyone else comes around, they're not likely to be real friendly with a banged up American. You wouldn't be safe."

Billy grunted. "I'm still a little confused as to when my personal safety became an actual concern to the team."

Michael rolled his eyes. "I hadn't realized you were taking everything so personally."

"Well," Billy said. "It's a mite hard not to, all things considered."

"But we're a _team,_" Michael said. "We can be asses to one another, but if anyone else messes with us, all bets are off."

Billy chuffed bitterly. "But I thought trust was owned in the Agency," he reminded Michael. "As I recall, you still have photos of me kissing a known terrorist sympathizer."

Michael smirked, clearly amused. "Yeah, I still can't believe you_ actually _kissed her."

"You told me it was part of the contact protocol!" Billy exclaimed. "I didn't know that you and yours would set me up and keep me in perpetual fear of losing my life and liberty on the_ first day._"

"Well, you are a MI6 washout," Michael reminded him. "We had reason to doubt."

Billy gaped in incredulity. "And you wonder why I'm perplexed as to your sudden kindness on this mission!"

Michael sighed. "That's a fair point, maybe," he conceded. "And trust is owned within the Agency, but sometimes it's also earned. And I think by now you've probably earned it from us, though I'm beginning to wonder if we've earned it from you."

Billy shook his head. "This is a set up again," he said, defenses flaring. "Because you're talking rubbish. Absolute rubbish. You've got this recorded? Maybe you're going to break my other leg now just to see what happens?"

"Oh, come on," Michael protested. "I just want to get us both out of here—"

But Billy shook his head again, more adamant. "No," he said. "I'm not going to be indebted to you anymore."

"But you can't walk—"

Struggling, Billy pushed himself up. His arms shook and tears sprung to his eyes, but he didn't give in. It was hard, but he found a way to balance precariously on one leg, leaning heavily against his tree, even as Michael stood with him, reaching out to steady him.

Billy pulled away. He'd relied on Michael too much already; he'd put his life in the hands of a man who had tormented and maligned him. The nicer Michael was, the less Billy could trust him.

Billy couldn't trust anyone.

Billy just needed to run.

Instincts were instincts, and trained and educated as Billy was, sometimes he was still fourteen, afraid to face the truth, afraid to face his failures, just_afraid._

And he was afraid now. Of Michael, of Venezuela, of his broken leg.

He just needed to _run._

It was a horrible, awkward gait but he lurched ahead, moving from one tree to the next, his leg bouncing and tears springing to his eyes. He swallowed and pushed through.

"Come on," Michael said. "This is stupid."

"Then it's par for the course, yeah?" Billy asked, throwing himself forward and barely catching the next tree. He was crying now, in earnest. "And what do you care?"

"Collins," Michael tried again. "Billy—"

Billy shook his head. "No," he said. "This entire thing is rubbish, and I just want to – I just _need¬—_"

He landed hard against the next tree, teetering. The pain was building again, but he didn't slow. His vision blurred – from the tears, from the pain, from his waning consciousness – Billy didn't know.

Didn't care.

"Wait, Collins," Michael said, a hint of urgency now. A hand locked around Billy's arm. "Just_ stop—_"

Billy thrashed, hissing angrily. "Why?" he spat, seething now. He tried to pull away, but then he saw the movement. Not Michael. Not the leaves.

It flicked, small amongst the brush. Dark scales, coiled body, beady eyes and—

Fangs.

Billy blinked, dumbly, head going light. A snake. It was a snake.

It hissed, body tensing, ready to strike.

And Billy, for all his fight or flight, just stood there and watched.

The snake leaped, lunging through the air, straight at Billy.

For a killing blow.

And Billy didn't fight it. Couldn't fight it. Accepted it. Welcomed it.

Until Michael's arms wrapped around him and pulled him down. They hit the ground hard, and Billy's leg exploded with pain again. It stole his breath, and he found his nose pressed into the foliage as he cried helplessly.

It was a long moment, lingering and tight, but he didn't pass out. This time, consciousness refused to leave him, even as his awareness ebbed and the pain took over. As it cleared, Billy found himself cognizant again, still face first on the ground. Still breathing. Still alive.

He blinked, looking back.

No snake.

Michael had pulled him out of the way.

He'd probably saved Billy's life. _Again._

Face red, Billy swallowed back his humiliation. "That was close," he murmured, his heart still thundering. "No way of knowing it if was poisonous, I reckon—"

Then his eyes settled on Michael.

Who was looking at something else.

Something on his leg.

Billy cocked his head, trying to see as Michael reached down, gritting his teeth as he ripped at the cuff of his pants, revealing his leg underneath.

And the neat puncture marks, weeping blood.

"Well, seems like there's one way," Michael said, shrugging. He looked up, meeting Billy's eyes grimly. "We wait and find out."


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

In Billy's time with the ODS, he had come to accept that the ridiculous and improbable were commonplace. In truth, it was hard to say whether or not the ODS sought out such situations or if they simply had the kind of luck to attract it, but near-death, peril and other sundry horrible experiences were things that Billy had to expect.

Like, falling down a hill while running from drug dealers.

Or being knocked out and used for bait to subdue said drug dealers.

So really, a snake appearing out of nowhere to strike probably wasn't so unexpected or outlandish in the grand scheme of things, but Billy had to admit, he hadn't seen it coming.

To be fair, though, Billy hadn't seen a lot of things coming. Otherwise he wouldn't have broken his leg in the first place. He wouldn't have got himself kicked out of MI6, either. Clearly, Billy had more than a few lapses in his history, and this time, it was sheer luck that he wasn't the one nursing a pair of fang marks on his calf.

Well, less luck. More idiocy.

"You got bit," Billy said, aware of how pathetic he sounded but unable to think of much else.

Michael grimaced, craning his neck to get a better look. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

Billy blinked, watching as the blood trickled down, staining the top of Michael's white sock. "You got bit saving me," he realized.

"Yeah," Michael said, wincing as he fingered the bite. "I know that, too."

For a moment, Billy could only gape, his higher reasoning temporarily stymied by the pain and the sheer improbability of this turn of events.

Face tight, Michael reached around, picking up the water bottle again. Unscrewing the cap, he ran some over the wound, flushing it out as best he could. Then, putting the water aside, he shrugged off his overshirt, promptly ripping off a portion.

Billy watched – too stupefied to move – as his team leader promptly bandaged the wound, tying it off quickly before looking back up at Billy.

"So," he said. "You think you're willing to come without throwing a fit this time?"

Furrowing his brow, Billy scoffed. "You were just bit by a snake."

"Do you have a concussion to go with that broken leg?" Michael asked. "We covered that part."

"But should you really be walking on it?" Billy asked, gesturing in futility at Michael.

"There's a decent chance it's not poisonous," Michael said. "And if it is, then sitting here will just mean I'll have to wait longer to get the antivenin."

That sounded…somewhat reasonable. Which was almost more mind-boggling than anything else. "But isn't there something we should do?"

"Next time, we should try not to flail through the jungle where highly poisonous snakes are," Michael suggested. "Oh, and maybe we should try not to fall down hills."

"You're mocking me," Billy realized.

Michael shrugged coolly. "Just stating the facts."

Billy snorted, indignant. "And here I thought maybe we'd turned a corner in our relationship," he sulked. "If you want to go, then go. I'll still slow you down."

Michael rolled his eyes, pulling his pack back on. "Are we ever going to get past that?"

Chin out, Billy shook his head defiantly. "If you think I'm nothing but a screw up, then you should go," he said tersely. Because he was tired, and if things were going to end poorly, he'd rather face that now, and not later. There was no point in prolonging it. No reason to endure more than he already had. It was time to sever ties, time to cut losses, time to _end it._ "Just bloody_ go._ If that thing is venomous, then you don't have time to be hauling me around."

"Maybe," Michael said, getting to his feet. He hesitated for a moment, eyes looking out at the jungle even as he eased the weight off his injured leg.

For a moment, Billy thought Michael had finally seen sense, reached his breaking point. Helping Billy was noble to a certain point, but there was no need to be suicidal. And at this point, dragging along a lame Scotsman very well could be suicidal. There was no point in dying for a man he didn't like. Michael Dorset was a paranoid bastard, not a stupid one. He'd shown some better parts of valor, but Billy had seen Michael for the plotter that he was. Staying with Billy now – wasn't worth the risk.

There was a cold certainty to that notion; a reassuring rejection. A validation of his doubts and his fears and his own worthlessness.

But then Michael looked at Billy, expression clouded for a moment, before settling on resignation. He reached his hand out. "But it's a chance I guess I'll have to take."

Billy stared, looking first at the hand, then at Michael's face. Calm, certain. Unyielding. "Why?" he asked, all anger gone, disbelief the only thing he had left.

"Because letting you die might be easier, but it's not better," Michael said. "We've all made mistakes, Collins. The question is how we learn from them. This is a lesson I've learned the hard way. Trust me when I say you don't want to learn it that way either."

Head still spinning, stomach still weak, Billy frowned in disconcertment. Maybe it was the pain; maybe it was the fever, but he didn't understand.

He didn't understand at all.

And yet, Michael's hand never moved.

It was stupid. Moronic, idiotic, foolish, daft, mad – and yet there it was. Billy wasn't worth it, and even he knew that. He wouldn't stay for Michael. Come back for him, sure, but stay? When his own life was on the line?

For a relative stranger? For a spy with a questionable background? For the new guy?

Michael still waited. He would wait there forever, Billy realized. He would die there with Billy on principle alone.

Stupid, moronic, idiotic, foolish, daft, mad – and uncompromising.

Billy could resign both of them to certain death.

Or give them a fighting chance.

When he reached out and took Michael's hand, he wasn't sure of his reason. If he was doing this somehow to save Michael's life, to make sure the man took the initiative to get the hell out.

Or if he was still doing it for himself, because no matter how much he hated his life, he was still afraid to die.

-o-

It hurt as much as it did before – each step a veritable agony, threatening his consciousness and stealing his breath – but he kept it at bay with every ounce of self control he had. He bit down hard, feeling his teeth grind together and keeping his eyes open to keep the unshed tears from falling. Because this wasn't just about him anymore.

That was a strange thing, and something of a revelation. His broken leg would have been a death sentence if not for Michael Dorset, and even if Billy didn't understand why the man had taken pity on him, Billy was now in the uncomfortable position of owing the man his life.

More than that, Billy was too aware of how every breath seemed to be a struggle for Michael now, too. How each time Billy shifted his weight across Michael's shoulders, the older man stifled a grunt, pressing his lips together in a thin line as he tried to control his own pain response.

That could be nothing, Billy told himself. They were tired and worn and hiking through extreme heat. Billy was increasingly putting more weight on Michael, so the strain was perhaps entirely to be expected. Innocuous even. For all Billy knew, it could be the tendrils of Michael's self control slowly ebbing away as Billy's failure and weakness started to drain them both.

Yet, Billy still heard the small catch of his breathing. Still felt his shoulders shudder. If it was more than the general circumstance, if the snake had been venomous…

Then Billy's broken leg was a death sentence for them both.

Still, Michael didn't slow, and this time, Billy refused to let himself give in either. Because if Michael was going to make such a Herculean effort, Billy owed it to him to do the same. They were fighting against an invisible clock now, one that Michael refused to acknowledge and one that Billy was too ashamed to mention. Because if the snake had been poisonous, then time was of the essence. Billy could fend off the fever for a while, but venom was another story.

Of course, the exertion of half-dragging Billy through the woods would only make Michael's injury worse. With his heart rate elevated, his blood would be moving faster, speeding up any ill effects should they take hold. Not only had Michael risked his life for Billy, but he was likely decreasing his odds of survival with every lurching step they took.

With so much attention on Michael, Billy found the task of moving marginally easier. Or, at least, not as soul-sucking.

Still, he did have an untreated broken leg and the start of infection while traipsing through the jungle in Venezuela. He had passed out more times than he could count, and that was taking a toll on him.

But suddenly, he found himself unable to decide which concerned him more: dying in the jungle for his own stupidity or having Michael die for him and having to explain to the rest of the ODS how he'd broken his leg and got Michael killed.

If Casey and Carson didn't kill him, Higgins would sack him, and this time he'd have nowhere to go. Where would he end up? Canada? Australia? Some lesser country as a mercenary for hire?

The thought was numbing.

Or the cumulative effects of his injury were numbing.

Either way, Billy found himself gasping for air, advancing with a nearly drunken gait.

"This is stupid," he huffed, not sure if he'd said that out loud or just imagined it.

"Yeah," Michael agreed, not missing a beat. He sounded a little breathless, even if his grip on Billy didn't waver. "I can't say this is one of my…better missions."

Billy willed himself to keep moving, blinking rapidly to control the encroaching darkness on his vision. He shook his head. "Then why are you still here?" he asked.

"You really are having a hard time with that one, aren't you?" Michael returned.

Billy was tired; he was hurt. His self control had worn thin, and he had nothing left. "You should go."

"You won't be able to defend yourself," Michael said.

"But you already neutralized the threat," Billy countered insistently. "You've taken care of everything – except yourself. This is…" He paused, swallowing a cry as his leg dinged the ground. "…stupid."

"We leave together," Michael repeated, the same mantra he'd had since Billy broke his leg.

"You can come back for me," Billy tried, because if this thing went poorly, if Michael had been envenomed, then Billy didn't want to be responsible. He couldn't…if Michael died…

Of all the things he'd considered, that hadn't even been on his radar. Maybe if it had, this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't have run ahead and broken his leg, he wouldn't have lashed out and startled the snake. He wouldn't be here.

"That's a risk I can't take," Michael told him.

"But walking out together could get us both killed!" Billy said.

Michael's grip tightened, fingers fisting in Billy's shirt even as his face was flushed and sweaty. He shook his head, eyes fixed ahead. "I like to control the variables," he explained. "Leaving you behind, it's too risky."

"Not for you," Billy returned with an indignant snort. "We're spies. Survival is in our own hands. If you let yourself be compromised, then no one will bring you home."

"You really still think that?" Michael asked. "After all this?"

Billy squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hot and fast even as Michael pulled him along. That was what he'd thought; that was the lesson he'd learned.

But on his own, he'd fallen down a hill and broken his leg. On his own, he'd probably be dead.

Instead, here he was. Alive, against the odds. Employed, getting out.

Because of Michael Dorset.

Billy hated it. He hated it so much it almost made him sick.

And yet, he couldn't turn it away. He couldn't fight it.

What could he do? Be ungrateful? Be spiteful? Or accept the gift he could never repay? The gift of a second chance, the gift of a new shot on life?

Everything hurt, from his leg to his head to his chest. And not just from the physical pain. But from the emotion—

Everything.

He opened his eyes, shaking his head. "I don't understand."

"Well," Michael said, and his face was drawn now, eyes a little unfocused. He wavered, and Billy scrambled to brace himself as they teetered. "Maybe you'll figure it out."

And with that, Michael's legs crumpled and he went down. The downward momentum threw Billy off kilter, and he had no way of stopping himself – or Michael – as he tumbled down after.

-o-

Billy wanted to pass out. In all actuality, it would have been easier. What with the unrelenting pain, building and stealing his breath and causing him general amounts of overwhelming agony – passing out would certainly be the easier option.

And Billy wasn't one to suffer needlessly. He wasn't one to endure things willingly when there were easier options to entertain. To his mind, spies didn't survive by having self-sacrificial martyr complexes. They survived by being better and having the most dogged will to survive.

So maybe that was why he clung tenaciously to consciousness.

Or maybe this time, it was guilt. As nagging and unrelenting as the pain was, he knew that if he'd gone down, then Michael had dropped him.

If Michael had dropped him, then Michael had gone down, too.

If Michael had gone down…

Then things were bad. Because Michael Dorset, in addition to be a paranoid bastard, was a nonsensical sort of spy, who apparently had decided to put Billy's life ahead of his own. The only reason Billy had got this far was for Michael's good graces, and if Michael was unconscious…

Well, that was Billy's fault.

Just like everything was Billy's fault.

Self-flagellation aside, he had to wake up—

The pure determination alone willed his eyes open with a white hot stab of pain. He choked, swallowing hard and blinking through his tears. Even then, it took him a long moment, panting and trembling, before his vision was clear enough to see.

The jungle all around. His splinted leg.

He turned, his heart thumping in his chest, until he saw Michael.

The leader of the ODS was sprawled on the ground next to him, face down in the brush. He was moving slightly, breathing in rapid inhalations that made his back rise and fall, even as he tried to curl up on his side.

Locking his jaw, Billy scooted as best he could, his bad leg bouncing uncomfortably on the ground as he tried to get to a better position. "Michael," he called. "Hey—"

Michael didn't reply, but by the time Billy got close enough, the older operative was on his side. His face was flushed, a sheen of sweat glistening brightly. His hair was damp at the temples, mouth open as he gasped for air.

Billy swallowed back his question, not even sure what he wanted to ask. What he wanted to do. Instead, he hovered awkwardly, hand out but not touching as Michael sucked in desperate breaths and focused glassy eyes on Billy.

"So," Michael said, wheezing more than a little, "guess that answers the question about whether or not the snake was poisonous."

Billy stared. It was a joke, but it wasn't funny. Nothing about this was funny. Not the mission, not the snakebite, not Billy's broken leg. Not the ODS, not Billy's deportation. Billy's entire life was a joke that no one was laughing at.

And Billy wanted to run. He needed to run. He wanted to get out, get away. Now.

But he had a broken leg. And Michael had a snakebite and it was Billy's fault.

The instinct was strong, but Billy fought it back. With difficulty, he swallowed again, offering the semblance of a wan smile. "Aye," he agreed. "I reckon it would be selfish of me to keep all the dramatics to myself on this mission."

Michael chuffed a laugh. "Was that a joke?"

Billy raised his eyebrows, shrugged. "Maybe humor doesn't translate well across the pond."

"No," Michael said, shaking his head. "In all the months you've been here, I haven't heard you joke."

Billy hadn't thought about that, but it didn't surprise him. Back home, he'd been big into jokes. He'd like to tell stories, to make people laugh. He'd charmed women and made friends easily. He'd been the life of the party, quick to break out the guitar, always with a ready-made tale for any situation. He'd been sociable and liked and respected…

But that had been before that last mission with MI6, before the investigation and the inquiry and the charges and the plea deal. Before he'd taken the coward's way out, sacrificing his name to salvage his life. Before he'd wound up desperate and pathetic and under the charge of Michael Dorset. He hadn't had anything to joke about since then.

This wasn't about him, though.

His smile wavered, but he shrugged. "Maybe I've just never had cause," he said. "You have to admit, it's a mite funny. CIA mastermind, felled by a snake in the jungle. It's got one hell of a punch line."

Michael chuckled, face twisting with a grimace. "It does have an unexpected bite," he said, gasping as he reached down to stabilize his leg.

Billy looked down. Michael's calf was still wrapped with a piece of his overshirt. "Maybe we ought to have a look…"

Michael shifted, sitting up a bit more. "We already know what the problem is," he said, matter of fact.

Billy didn't deny it, but instead moved himself down, leaning over Michael's leg. "Perhaps," he said, picking gently at the tattered fabric. He pulled at the ripped pant leg to get a better look. "But it will be useful to gauge just how far advanced the problem is."

It was Michael's turn to be surprised. "You know something about snakebites?"

Billy forced a laugh. "I'm a spy," he said, carefully turning the leg toward him. "One of MI6' best. It's hard not to be a jack of all trades."

Michael winced but didn't pull away. "I know," he said. "I read your file."

"Ah," Billy said, putting the fabric back in place. "Well, don't believe everything you read, mate."

"The good stuff was redacted," Michael said. Then he shrugged. "It told me enough."

"And you hired me anyway?"

Michael shrugged, but glanced at his leg and pointedly changed the topic. "So how's it look?"

Under most circumstances, Billy would have been grateful for the change in topic. After all, discussing his flame out of a career and his indebtedness to the CIA was not his favorite subject. But Michael's leg wasn't exactly something he wanted to discuss either.

Because Michael's leg was a mess. Swollen and red, it was disfigured, already affected by whatever venom had been injected. It had been hot to the touch, clearly infected and getting worse.

And there was nothing Billy could do. Broken bones could be set, blood flow could be stemmed, but venom? Billy was powerless to stop it.

Mostly, Billy was powerless.

But there was nowhere to run.

With as much affectation as he could muster, he shrugged. "Like a snakebite," he said. "A little antivenin and I'm sure you'll be right as rain long before me."

In theory, that was true. Assuming they got out of the jungle in time.

Which was a big assumption.

Worry twisted in his gut, but Michael just nodded. "Okay," he said. "So we need to figure out our next move."

Billy couldn't help but snort. "You've been bitten by a poisonous snake," he said. "And I've got a broken leg. I'm not sure we'll be making any move soon."

Michael's lips twisted up into a sardonic smile. "I know you seem to be a bit of a slow learner, so we'll call this lesson number one," he said. "You're never out of moves. The moment you think you are, that's the moment you're dead."

-o-

Michael had a plan.

"We'll hole up, make camp," he said. He nodded to the surrounding trees. "This isn't too bad of a spot. We have good visibility so if someone unfriendly comes our way, we'll at least have a fighting chance but it's unlikely that Casey or Carson would miss us when they scout this way."

Billy stared at him, wondering if this was a legitimate proposal or if Michael had gone and lost his mind.

Michael shrugged, face pinched as he continued. "We may still be waiting for the night, though, so we'll want to get settled as best we can. A fire is probably out, but I'm hoping it won't get too cold. We have enough provisions for a day or two, which is all we'll need."

"Mate, starving to death is the least of your concerns," he interjected finally.

Michael blinked at him, eyes still lucid even if fever bright. He was staring at Billy as though _he _were the one who was mad.

"You've got venom coursing through your body!" Billy exclaimed, gesturing toward his leg. "Granted, we don't know what species or how much, but given how fast it's come up on you already, I don't think you'll be awake enough in the morning to worry about eating."

Michael's eyes narrowed, regarding Billy carefully. "Like you said, we don't know," he said. "We plan for the contingencies."

"Oh, I'm all for contingencies," Billy said. "But you're glossing over the small but fairly important detail where you're more likely to die from the venom than anything else."

Closing his mouth, Michael worked his jaw. "Did you have a better solution?"

Billy nodded, scoffing. "Run."

Michael cocked his head.

Billy gestured toward the jungle. "Use what strength you have left and run like hell," he said. "The farther you get, the better your odds are. You won't have much time when Casey and Carson find you, so you'll want to get as much distance as possible. If you start now before the venom has any more effect, you might make it most of the way before it takes you down."

Michael shook his head. "I might be able to get a little farther with your weight, but not much," he said. "No, our best bet is to make camp."

"No, your best bet is to run without lugging me beside you," Billy said.

"And what, just leave you here?"

"Oh, don't start on that rubbish again," Billy said sharply. "This whole brothers-in-arms things is admirable, but it's not worth your life. You don't have to die just because I lost my head and fell down a hill."

"And you don't have to die either," Michael countered.

Billy groaned. "The broken leg won't kill me," he said. "You can coerce Carson to come back for me when you meet up with them. He's the only one among you that doesn't seem to loathe my presence with every ounce of his being."

"We don't loathe you," Michael said.

"No, you just love to torture me," Billy agreed. "I'm beginning to understand it as a sadistic kind of affection."

"Hey, I'm still here," Michael reminded him.

He was. Against all odds, to Billy's total frustration, Michael was still here. "I might appreciate the sentiment were it not so foolhardy," he said. "Just_go._ I would, in a heartbeat."

It was a gruff confession, almost crass as he let the words escape, charging the distance between them. But he couldn't take it back – he wouldn't. It was true. Even now that he hated himself for it, it was true.

Michael watched him, his mouth closing and his posture stiffening. "I know," he replied, a little quiet.

There was no condemnation; no accusation. There was no blistering critique or demeaning poke. Michael had every right to lambast Billy, to call him the miserable excuse for a teammate and colleague and representative of the CIA that he was, but he didn't.

Maybe because Michael had known all along. Maybe because the man had read his file and raked him across the coals every chance he got. Maybe all he'd wanted was the admission, for Billy to realize that his place on the team was something he'd never earn, not just because he was an MI6 reject, but because he just wasn't good enough.

Or maybe it was more than that. What, Billy wasn't sure anymore, but none of it made sense. Why they would ridicule and mock him, why they would treat him poorly and trick him. Maybe not just condemnation; maybe a chance to rise above. Maybe second chances weren't free, but painstakingly carved out from the ruins. Maybe to teach him his place; maybe to help him discover it.

Maybe trust wasn't earned within the Agency; maybe it was owned.

Maybe it was proven.

If Michael Dorset wanted to be an impossible, paranoid bastard, Billy could play that game. After all, he hadn't risen to the top of MI6 by being a wallflower. Nor had he managed to secure a job at the CIA for a lack of fortitude.

Traitor, rookie, rascal: he was all that. And maybe, today, he could be more.

Or, at the very least, he could make sure that Michael Dorset lived and gave them both another chance to work this mess out, one way or another.

Billy set his jaw, taking a deep breath, rallying his courage along with his conviction. "This is madness," he said, struggling to prop himself, trying to get to his feet. It was a cumbersome process, and his leg protested, but Billy gritted his teeth and pushed through.

"What do you think you're doing?" Michael asked, somewhat alarmed from the ground.

On his feet, Billy felt the blood drain from his head, tears stinging anew. But he looked down without hesitation. "Setting up camp is stupid," he said. "I'm going."

"You've got a broken leg," Michael protested.

Billy nodded curtly. "Aye," he said, taking an ungainly step. He almost faltered, wobbling, and he had to bite back a cry but he kept going. On the next step, he stumbled, using a tree to prop himself up, and nearly crashing to the ground anyway.

"Hey," Michael said again, protesting more vehemently now as he got to his feet, favoring one leg slightly as he reached out to steady Billy. "Now who's being stupid?"

Billy lifted his chin defiantly. "If you're as determined to save my life as you seem to be, then you're going to have to come along, too," he said. "Because I'm leaving."

Michael met his gaze, mouth closed. He understood, of course. It didn't take a tactical genius to sort through Billy's psychological ploy. The thing was, though, they both knew it would work.

Resigned, Michael sighed, maneuvering himself into position and slipping Billy's arm around his shoulders. But when he looked at Billy, there was something different in his eyes, something softer, more welcoming. As if they'd finally reached their first understanding since Billy joined the team.

Still, Michael pursed his lips. "Just so you know," he said. "Having me carry you out of here isn't a very good rescue."

Billy had to laugh. "Probably not," he agreed as they started along, slow and limping. "But sitting there and watching you die isn't much better."

To that, Michael had no disagreement as they marched along, bedraggled and determined.

-o-

Determined though they both were, their injuries were forces to be reckoned with. Billy's renewed grit allowed him to hobble along, but the pain was wearing on him and the fever was still burning noticeably in his forehead. He refused to mention it, but things were a bit gauzy in his vision, the lights haloing with a slight air of fantasy, even as the pain eroded his fledgling sense of self control.

He kept walking despite this, though he honestly didn't know how much longer he could keep up.

And yet, there was no choice. If he went down, Michael would go down with him. Although they had started the trek with Michael bearing Billy's weight, the shift throughout was palpable as Michael leaned further into Billy with every passing pace. After a long hour, it was no longer clear who was holding up who, just that they were both pressed against each other in a desperate attempt to keep going.

Because being noble and getting Michael out sounded well and good, but Billy had a broken leg and a fever and—

His mind cleared when, next to him, Michael stumbled, his footing slipping. Billy struggled to compensate, bearing weight on his bad leg but somehow keeping them upright. Blinking rapidly, he tried to keep himself alert, glancing over at Michael.

His team leader was looking worse – and markedly so. In the last hour, his head had started drooping, eyelids heavy and face flushed with fever. His hair was drenched with sweat now, and Billy felt it through his shirt where they were propping each other upright.

It would be easier to give it up. Easier to hope that Casey and Carson would find them. Easier.

Billy had made a career out of _easier._

And that hadn't turned out so spectacular.

Swallowing, he fought the darkness in his vision and cleared his throat. "So," he said, trying to sound as conversational as possible. "You said you saw my file."

Head bobbing, Michael seemed to rouse a little. "There wasn't much there."

"Aye," Billy agreed. "I imagine the British government wasn't too generous with the details."

"You must have pissed them off pretty bad," Michael said, words starting to slur together.

Billy prodded him with his shoulder, dragging them both forward another step. "I seem to have a special talent for that," he said.

Michael made a small sound of agreement, but no words seemed forthcoming.

Worry continued to ferment in Billy's stomach, but he refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he persisted, moving them forward, channeling the pain from his leg into his fight to keep moving. "Is that why you've proceeded with the hazing as it were?" Billy pressed. "Hoping maybe that I'd go to the director and request a reassignment?"

Michael snorted, eyes blinking lazily. "I was the one who begged the director to take you on," he said. "He wanted to reject your application."

Billy stopped short, looking at Michael in earnest. The older operative could only barely lift his head for a tilted look, but still their eyes met. "You asked for me?" he asked, trying to make sense of the words.

He had never asked, of course, but he'd assumed. His plea deal from MI6 had given him few options, and one of the last favors he had there had managed to send his file along with a curious letter of recommendation. Billy had known it must have been a hard sell, filled with nuance and promises and many things unsaid, but he'd imagined it as being from one director to another. Higgins knew more of the story than anyone else at the CIA, and Billy had been nothing but kind and effusive to the man for what he'd assumed had been a second chance.

He reckoned none of that changed his gratitude toward the man, although he'd long suspected that the favor had not been to Billy and more to MI6 to help clean up Billy's mess. After all, putting Billy on trial and sentencing him to life in prison would be a rather unfortunate stain for Queen and Country. A tidy back deal to the CIA could be mutually beneficial. The MI6 got to clean its hands of the mess while the CIA gained a trained operative at the lowest pay level imaginable, on such a short leash that one wrong move would literally have him hanging.

But _Michael _had been the one to ask for him. _Michael _had been the one to read his file and take him on. It had been _Michael's _idea.

Michael blinked, but his eyes were lucid. "Our last member retired. Higgins gave me three files. I think he threw yours in there so I'd think I'd have a choice, when really he wanted to plant someone else in the ODS. So I took you."

Something in Billy's chest ached but that made sense. "You chose the devil you knew," he said. "Or least avoided the one that you couldn't control. At least the line _trust is owned _makes a lot more sense now."

Michael's face scrunched up, and he shook his head. "We can break any mole," he said. "But you were different. I knew that from the beginning."

"If by different you mean desperate, then we are in agreement," Billy joked feebly, eyes going down as he tried to move them forward again.

But Michael shook his head, not moving. "There's a fine line between being a traitor and a hero. An even finer one between hope and desperation," he said. "I thought I could train you."

Billy frowned.

Michael smiled, leaning heavily still against Billy. "And today I think it finally paid off," he said.

Billy was about to ask why, about to ask for more, but then Michael's eyes rolled up in his head and his legs went out before he slid limply to the ground.

-o-

This time, Billy managed to control their descent, catching Michael as he went down, cradling him awkwardly as his own legs bent, dropping them both roughly to the ground. The impact sent a spike of pain through his body, but the repeated agony was losing its pointedness. Billy wasn't sure that was a good sign, but at this point he'd take what he could get.

On the ground with Michael sprawled half on top of him, staying conscious was certainly better than nothing. He'd have to fight for anything else he got, because it was fairly clear to Billy that luck was not on his side.

The urge to rail against the injustices done against him was strong, but with Michael, Billy knew he didn't have the time.

Taking a deep breath, Billy lifted Michael a little, trying to extricate himself from the mess of limbs. He wanted to be careful for Michael's sake – because the older operative was clearly in no position to help himself anymore – but also for his own. Still, as he backed up, his broken leg bounced across the ground, and when he was finally clear, it took all of his strength to lay Michael down gently before squeezing his eyes shut in pain.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, eyes clenched and fingers fisting in the brush, but when he opened his eyes, everything looked a bit gray. Night was rapidly approaching, though Billy found that he couldn't quite remember how long they'd actually been moving anymore. Time was blurring together. His stomach was unsettled, his head achy, and every movement felt just slightly off, like a movie where the sound didn't match the picture.

But he was awake, if not entirely alert. And that made him better off than Michael.

Grimly, he looked over at his team leader, moving guardedly to better assess him. One look told him enough. Michael's face was red and drenched, mouth open as he breathed with desperate inhalations. His chest sounded a little wheezy, which indicated that the venom was taking effect.

It took some effort to steady himself, but when Billy pressed his fingers to Michael's pulse point, he could feel the frenetic beat, lilting slightly off kilter every now and then. It was too fast, too light, too irregular. His blood pressure was probably dangerously low already.

The skin was hot, and while Billy had known already that Michael was feverish, it was still a sobering realization to know just how bad it was. Because Michael was burning up. It was nothing short of a miracle that he'd managed to walk along for as long as he had.

Not a miracle, Billy thought, eyes lingering on Michael's unconscious features. Pure grit, more likely. Michael was the type who defied the odds by force of will alone. Billy hadn't realized how much he'd come to count on that during his few short months at the Agency.

It had saved Billy's life, no doubt. It had given him a job.

And now there was nothing left by which Michael could save himself.

Breathing tightly, Billy looked down toward Michael's leg. The area was grossly swollen now, the bandage almost pinching off circulation from the over-inflated leg. Making a face, he loosened the bandage, letting it fall away. The bite marks were stretched and blackened, deeply set in the puffy, distended skin.

Billy only had rudimentary medical knowledge and basic first aid training, but he knew this was bad. More than that, however, he knew there was nothing he could do. There was just one cure for a poisonous snake: antivenin.

Which Billy didn't have.

Billy didn't have a lot of things he needed in life. He didn't have a country; he didn't have a real home; he didn't have much by the way of family. He didn't have a career he wanted, any social life to speak of, or even a friend to turn to in his time of undeniable need. He had to get used to most of those inadequacies, and he thought maybe some of it could change – maybe he could clear his name in London, maybe he could explain enough to his family, maybe he could find new friends…

Time would tell with that. Time Billy presumably had because Michael hadn't left him to die when he could have.

But Billy didn't have time to wait on the antivenin. Rather, Michael didn't have time.

Glancing at his watch, Billy checked the time. They were well past their checkpoint, which was the good news, he reckoned. Casey and Carson were no slouches when it came to fieldwork; they'd know something was amiss.

This far out, they had no phone coverage, but knowing Michael's inalienable sense of direction, Billy had to think they were still on course, which meant that if Carson and Casey made a straight search, they'd be sure to stumble across them.

Rescue would come.

Billy's eyes flitted back to Michael.

He just didn't know if it would come soon enough.

Because Michael was insensate, fever burning through him and leg swelling. If he didn't get antivenin soon, it might be too late.

Billy tried not to think that it might be too late already.

But the fact was, Billy didn't know. Billy didn't know a lot of things in life, though he often blustered his way through anyway. Spywork, he'd found, was as much about believing in his own lies as it was anything else. If he didn't slow down to second guess himself, he found that few other people had time to second guess him either.

That had usually worked.

Except for when it didn't and he ended up on charges and deported. Or with a broken leg and a stricken team leader.

This was his fault.

He swallowed, willing himself to keep his emotions in check. This was his fault.

But this time, he couldn't run. He wouldn't. Not just because of his broken leg, but because he owed it to Michael.

Because it was the right thing to do.

Collecting himself, Billy sat back, taking a few shaky breaths as he tried to settle himself into a comfortable position, eyes trained on Michael.

"I think I'll take your advice now and make camp," he said into the jungle. "I still don't prefer it as a plan, but I reckon it's the best we have for now. But Casey and Carson ought to be here soon, and then we'll get out."

Billy said it with as much inflection as he could muster. And he was a good sell, he knew. People wanted to believe him when he put his best face forward.

Billy just hoped for once that he didn't turn out to be a liar for once.

-o-

It didn't take long for Billy to remember why he liked to run. Running wasn't necessarily easier, but it was _something._ Billy could handle whatever came, as long as he was running to face it. He found that minimized the impact. After all, if he didn't like where he ended up, he could pick up and run again.

Sitting still, however; letting the consequences play out – that was torture. It was slow and deliberate, every slow and painful moment uncomfortably filled with regrets and worst case scenarios. Billy didn't like thinking about what he'd done wrong; he liked thinking about how badly things could still turn out even less.

So sitting there in the jungle with a broken leg, watching Michael fight against the venom that ravaged his body as the dusk descended, Billy wanted to run. He wanted to run so far and so fast that he couldn't even think about this mission or how it'd all gone to hell. He didn't want to think about his own stupid mistakes or Michael's incorrigible sense of parity.

Billy just didn't_ want _to. It took more control than he thought he had to sit there, fighting his instincts, to _stay._ If he was running, then he didn't have to admit he'd been kicked out. If he was running, he didn't have to acknowledge what he'd lost. If he was running…

Not this time, damn it. Not after Michael nearly died for him.

Not this time.

The resolve was all he had, worn and weathered, beat down by the pain and exhaustion. But he'd hold it, still.

There wasn't much to do to pass the time. He organized their sparse supplies, keeping things consolidated so when Casey and Carson arrived, they could make a hasty exit.

Together.

He glanced toward Michael, remembering how he had insisted on nothing less when it had been Billy laid out on the fauna. Billy had just had a broken leg, Michael….

Was bad and getting worse. After checking and rechecking the supplies, he found himself keeping a reluctant vigil, trying to decide if Michael's leg was still swelling and if his fever was climbing. The bite marks were clearly blackened in the reddened skin, and Billy helplessly noted a rash forming along Michael's arms and up his neck. The fever left the team leader listless, and Billy felt useless.

Probably because he was useless. Sitting there with his broken leg, he was entirely useless. To think Michael had actually_ wanted _him.

Sighing, Billy scrounged through their pack again, finding a fresh bottle of water. Another quick search turned up a bandana. Casey and Carson would be on their way by now, so using the water wouldn't be wasteful. Besides, if they weren't already coming, they would arrive too late and the water would be a touch superfluous.

Pouring some carefully, Billy dampened the cloth. It was only lukewarm at best, but with the humid climate, Billy had to think it was better than nothing. Scooting closer, he contained a grimace, reaching out awkwardly to wipe the cloth over Michael's brow.

Michael jolted a little at the touch, his head turning toward Billy as he clumsily trailed the cloth down each cheek. By the time he folded it on top of Michael's brow, the older man was looking at him.

Billy tried to smile. "Hello, there."

It sounded stupid to say, his voice too friendly, his words too upbeat.

Michael frowned, clearly a bit confused. "You're here."

Billy chuckled, trying desperately to hide how terrified he was. "How far did you think I'd get on a broken leg?"

"I thought you'd try, at least," Michael murmured, his words trailing off as his face distorted in pain. He arched a little, gritting his teeth together in obvious discomfort.

Billy reached out, hand lingering. "Careful, careful," he coaxed, not sure what to do with his hand. He settled it on the ground, leaning closer. "It's best if you stay calm."

Michael laughed, short and gruff, his eyes opening to slits as he eyed Billy with something akin to bemusement. "Optimism?" he croaked. "From you?"

He'd never thought of it like that. But he hadn't thought much of it at all. When he'd started at MI6, he'd been eager and green. He'd believed in causes; he'd believed in himself. He'd _believed._

But that had come crashing down, and Billy had been forced to leave that inerrant belief along with everything else. He hadn't thought much about how it had changed him, but here he was, a thoroughly changed man. And not for the better.

Billy was a liar, though. He could deceive; he could charm. He just had to put his mind to it.

So his mouth opened into a coy grin. "Sort of hard to be optimistic when the three men charged with your well being choose to torment you on a routine basis," he said, giving an easy shrug.

"It's all in love," Michael said, settling back, his body easing a little.

Billy raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "I think we've got a different definition of love, mate."

Michael shrugged one shoulder. "Okay, it's all in the hope of mutually beneficial working relationship," he said. "We're a tight knit group, most of the time. It takes us a while to warm up."

Billy laughed again. "I'd reckon that's an understatement," he said.

"Oh, like you've given us much to work with," Michael shot back, eyes opening further and fixing on Billy.

Billy's humor faded slightly, and his shoulders slouched. "Fair enough," he said. "But I'm still here."

Watching him, Michael nodded slowly. "You are," he agreed, words still strained, breathing wheezing slightly with each inhalation.

The silence stretched between them, and Billy wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't sure what was expected of him. This role of protector, of being part of a team again, of having someone depend on him – it was still new, foreign. He was starting to wonder if it wasn't a question of whether or not he trusted Michael, but if he trusted himself.

There wasn't time for such personal misgivings, though. Not here, not now. Not with Casey and Carson still far out, not with Billy's broken leg, not with Michael succumbing to a snakebite.

Michael was succumbing, too; there was no arguing that. Awake though he was, Michael looked ghastly, soaked through and spent. He was lucid, but only after a period of profound unconsciousness. Even with that, he looked ready to fall back asleep, the tremors shaking him becoming more pronounced as he tried to visibly hold them in check.

For Billy's sake, no doubt.

Drawing a deep breath, Billy inched forward, unscrewing the lid to the water and holding it out. "You should drink."

Even dazed with fever, Michael gave him a quizzical, discerning look.

Billy rolled his eyes. "I thought it was my job to be the distrusting outsider."

"No," Michael said. "You're the stuck up pretty boy who thinks it's still all about him."

The candor made Billy flinch. He smiled weakly. "If the shoe fits, I suppose."

Michael grunted. "Lots of shoes could fit," he said.

"Oh?" Billy asked. "Then by all means, I'm open to suggestions."

Michael shifted, wincing a little as he swallowed with effort and shook his head. "What about the charmer?" he said. "You've got the looks. Heck, if you tried smiling a little more often, everyone in the Agency would love you."

Billy gave him a funny look. "You overestimate my wiles."

"Hardly," Michael said. "One look at your file, and I hired you, all advice to the contrary."

Billy's breath caught in his chest. He forced it back and held Michael's gaze, lifting the bottle again. "If that's the case, then you have no choice but to drink," he said.

Michael's eyes narrowed.

Billy shrugged disarmingly, flashing the hint of a smile. "You already risked your life for me," he said. "What's one drink?"

Reluctant, Michael lifted his hand. It was shaking, and he almost dropped the bottle. Billy steadied his hand, helping as they lifted the bottle together for him to take a slow, tremulous drink.

When Michael was done, water had spilled down his chin and he looked more exhausted than before. He took a moment, eyes up at the sky while he breathed, unsteady, uneven breaths. Billy purposefully recapped the bottle, twisting it closed and trying not to watch Michael.

After a long moment, Michael's breathing began to ease. "You should leave," he said, voice quiet.

Billy looked up, and found Michael looking at him.

Michael blinked, eyes clouded even as he nodded. "You should run," he repeated, words starting to slur together again.

Billy's heart skipped a bit, his stomach churning. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised, even as Michael's eyes drifted closed and his mouth parted in a deep sleep. The words hurt, but they mattered, more than ever before. "I'm not going."

-o-

Saying it was one thing; actually staying was another.

True, Billy didn't actually have a lot of choices, given his predicament. But sitting there idly while Michael drifted in and out of consciousness was tedious and terrifying in equal turns.

It was the right thing to do, though, and that mattered. Even if it didn't, Billy had few other palatable options.

Just sit and wait.

Sit and hope.

Hope was a tenuous thing, and Billy had spent so long avoiding it that now that it was the only thing he had left, it left him unsettled and nervous. He sat, propped against a tree, legs stretched out next to Michael, who was sprawled on the jungle floor. Their supplies were within arm's reach, still packed but organized, and he found himself increasingly on edge.

That could be the fever, he reckoned, and he could still feel it burning in his cheeks and throbbing in his ears. The pain in his leg had subsided with the stillness, but the reprieve from physical agony only made the emotional toll more acute with each passing second.

And the seconds did pass. Slowly, torturously. The second hand on his watch ticked by but no time seemed to pass. The night was almost upon them now, and they were running out of time. Billy listened for sounds of approaching footsteps, but there were only insects buzzing and birds chirping.

No rescue.

Nothing.

Billy worked his jaw, refusing to look at his watch again. Casey and Carson would come; if not for Billy, then for Michael.

They would come soon.

His eyes moved to Michael, who hadn't roused again. Though his eyes were closed, it was clear that his sleep was far from restful. He twitched, head jerking and eyes moving beneath the flushed lids, and he muttered from time to time, almost whimpering as the fever continued to rise.

Billy had stopped checking the fever; he'd stopped checking the leg and rash, too. His continual prodding only confirmed what he already knew. With no means to correct the problem, the weighty knowledge just made him sick.

Still, he did what he could. He kept the compress on Michael's head as cool as possible, soaking it with fresh water when the fever sapped it. His consistency was numbing, but it was the only thing that kept him grounded.

Watch the jungle; check the supplies; tend to Michael.

But this time, when he leaned over to refold the compress, the small movement seemed to rouse Michael. His eyes fluttered, but instead of drifting back off into sleep, this time they opened, staring blankly out into the foliage for a long moment.

Billy grinned. "And sleeping beauty awakes!" he crooned, trying to be jovial. If it was too much, he hoped Michael's good sense would be blunted by the venom. "That's a positive thing, because I was getting close to attempting a kiss to wake you, which may have been rather awkward."

Michael's brow furrowed and he blinked, his eyes slowly focusing as his head rolled slightly to look at Billy.

"Plus, I'd hate to think of what your wife would do to me," Billy joked. "For all the trouble you lads have put me through, I imagine her punishment would be far worse."

Michael watched him for another moment more, face twisting with a frown. Then he shook his head. "Fay says I care about the team more than her," he said, words rushed and slurred. "Problem is, I think she's right."

Billy's chest twinged, and he shifted awkwardly. In his time with the ODS, he had endured many things, but personal chitchat had never been among them. "Yes, well," he said. "The perils of being an active spy, I suppose."

Michael shook his head, eyes starting to roam a bit. "She doesn't understand," he said, muttering the words a bit. His breathing hitched, his body arching a little, as if to breathe more deeply. "'S not really _more,_" he continued, eyes flitting between the branches in the canopy above them. "'S_family._ Can't marry someone without total commitment; can't go into the field without it either."

Billy pressed his lips together, struggling for something to say.

Michael shook his head, rolling his eyes back to Billy but this time, they never quite focused. "Told Carson and Casey, too. We're a_ team. _All in. That's how we all come back alive. All in."

Guilt rising, Billy looked down. "Aye, let's hope it works out that way this time, too."

Michael took a ragged breath, flailing his arms a little.

Surprised, Billy looked up, half horrified to find the older operative trying to sit up. "Mate, I don't think—"

Michael shook his head again, more adamant, fighting against Billy with a surprising if uncoordinated strength. "Doesn't always make sense, but none of us do," he said, words coming fast now even as he pushed against Billy's grip. "Carson'd be a drunk; Casey'd be a mass murderer; and I'd be locked up in a closet waiting for the men in white coats."

It was hard to hold Michael in place without causing him more harm; harder still as Michael's thrashing limbs threatened to jar Billy's still very broken leg. "Yes, well, insanity and sanity is a fine line in spy work," he agreed. "But really, you need to be _still._"

Michael bucked, straining in earnest now. "Billy's no different. They say he's a traitor, but that just makes him a man with something to prove. We all have something to prove," he said, flailing again. "We can prove it together."

Billy blinked, and then he realized. Michael was conscious, but not really. Whether the venom had hallucinogenic effects or the fever was just too high, Michael was delirious, seeing things that weren't there. He didn't know who Billy was anymore.

Rather, he knew _exactly _who Billy was, but he just didn't know he was exposing his secrets to him. That the ODS was difficult, hard to like, and impossible – but they were family. Their own messed-up, dysfunctional, ever codependent family. No one else would take them, but that didn't matter because they had each other.

Michael and Casey and Carson.

And Billy.

It was a hard thing to understand; harder still to accept. If Billy didn't belong here, then maybe he didn't belong anywhere.

Michael thrashed again, face pinching in discomfort as his eyes welled up and he moaned. "He just needs time," he said. "We all need time."

The words drifted off into a whimper, and Billy did his best to hang on while the worst of Michael's delusion passed before he started to sink back limply to the ground. Billy did his best to control the descent, ignoring his leg as he settled Michael back on the ground.

Eyelids fluttering, Michael's head still tossed. "We can make him better," he mumbled, eyes drifting closed. "We can all be better."

Billy still held on, hands on Michael's arms as the older man drifted back into unconsciousness. He held on until the tremors eased, until Michael lapsed back into an uneasy sleep.  
_  
We can make him better. We can all be better.  
_  
Letting go, Billy sat close and struggled to believe.

-o-

It was too much.

Billy's leg had become a veritable black hole, sucking all of his energy, all of his focus, _everything._ His own fever dogged him, and he found his vision greying out more often as he endeavored to stay awake as the night fell.

And that wasn't even the worst of it.

Sitting there, watching Michael slowly slip away—

Billy had thought he understood. He had thought he'd pegged the ODS as a group of heartless, paranoid bastards, but they were all as scared as he was. But where he ran, they stayed, and they were the better men for it.

Yet, Michael was dying.

That was the thing, too. Billy didn't hardly think it, but it was true. With the fever and the delusions, the swollen leg and the rash: Michael was dying. His breathing was strained and desperate, heart beating so frantically that Billy could see Michael's pulse straining against the skin of his throat.

Billy breathed in and bit down hard, feeling the tears burning at the back of his eyes. It was stupid to cry – childish and unprofessional – but he had nothing else.

He had nothing.

Pathetically, he sniffled, shaking his head. His eyes lingered downward, looking at his hands. "I reckon it's not a surprise to you that you're right," he said through his constricted throat. "This is all a part I play, and it's not even one I like."

His voice sounded funny, the words almost foreign as they lilted among the natural cacophony around them.

The tension hummed through him, and he forced a bitter smile. "It's easier to hate all of you than it is to admit how much I hate myself," he said, giving a small, one-shouldered shrug. "Because you're wrong, too. I'm not the man you think I am. I would have left you to die more than once today. I think I only stayed out of guilt."

"Then why are you still here?"

Michael's voice startled him, and Billy looked up, eyes wide. Michael was still stretched out on the ground, face red and hair soaked, but his eyes were lucid and focused, even if fever-bright, as they looked at Billy knowingly.

Because Michael probably already knew. Even when Billy wasn't sure, Michael knew.

Billy managed a laugh, though it was a short, choked sound. "If you haven't noticed, I've got no other place to go," he said, and he wasn't sure if he was talking about on this mission or on his career at the CIA. Or if it was just everything.

Michael took a breath, his trembling starting up again. "Well," he said, teeth starting to chatter as his tremors increased. "We want you here."

Billy scoffed despite himself. "You all have a funny way of showing it," he said. "Though I reckon, you're right. Or you'd have left me by now. Casey and Carson, though—"

"Feel the same," Michael interjected, forcing a swallow. He convulsed, blinking rapidly. "You just have to – to give them – time."

"Trust can be earned, then, aye?" Billy asked. "You are a lying bastard."

Michael laughed, breathless. "Just trying to – to make you – feel at home."

Billy chortled, the sound wrenching in his gut as he watched Michael struggle. The lines on his face were noticeable, indicative of the growing pain and the mounting struggle. There was nothing Billy could do though; while the pain ravaged Michael's body, Billy could only sit and watch and offer meager platitudes.

So he'd offer the best damn platitudes he could muster.

Leaning forward, he reached down, squeezing Michael's arm. Such closeness, such proximity, such_ affection _was foreign and strange, but it was right. He looked steadily in Michael's eyes and made sure the other man was listening. "I don't deserve it, you know," he said, as honest and earnest as he had ever been. "I don't deserve a place on this team – or any team. The things I've done…"

He trailed off, unable to continue. The weight of it all, the prescience of his past – it was more than he knew how to handle. That was why he kept running. That was why sitting here was so very, very hard.

Still, he forced it back. "I've been a selfish bastard. You should have left me back there, and not just because I would have left you. But because I'm a mess and always have been. You know that, I think, so I don't know why you just didn't go."

Michael's body was taut as the pain wracked him. His breathing was short and strained, gasping, heaving breaths escaping through parted, chafed lips. "Because we've all be there – Casey, Carson – me," he said with stunted effort. "We've learned – to deal with it – in our own ways. I thought—" He broke off, squeezing his eyes shut as he spasmed, almost coughing as he opened his eyes again. "I thought if you could learn that, you might – you might be – the best thing – that ever happened to this team."

In all the lies and deception and trickery, the barest truth was the hardest thing to hear. Not because it was demeaning and insulting, but because it made him realize how wrong he'd been. How he'd seen torture when really it'd been a chance to prove himself. He'd seen obstacles when it'd been an opportunity. He'd been so scared that he'd thought the hand reaching out to save him was pushing him down.

He'd been wrong.

He should be getting used to that by now, but the consequences never got easier. Decommissioned and deported. Now here he was, watching someone die on his behalf.

And what could he say? What could he do? What was left?

Just platitudes and failed opportunities and regrets.

Billy took a ragged breath, feeling himself waver. "I doubt that, mate," he said, fingers still wrapped around Michael's arm.

Michael heaved for air, his entire body contorting with the effort. His eyes danced upward, darting aimlessly as he writhed. Still, he shook his head. "Doubt that," he replied between gasping breaths, clearly expending the last of his depleted energy reserves.

Billy was going to protest; he was going to joke; he was going to do something.

But it was too late.

Michael convulsed again before his body fell back, his eyes rolling up as he went limp and lifeless on the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

When Billy was fourteen, he ran away from home.

The reasons why were vague to him now, but he could still remember his indignant thoughts, about how limited he was, about how no one treated him right, about how he could do so much better on his own.

But now, sitting in the jungle in Venezuela, nursing a broken leg and watching a man suffer on his account, he began to wonder if the reasons mattered at all. He hadn't run away because _life _was too much. He'd run away because he'd been too scared. It wasn't about the reasons; it was about him.

It was always about_ him._

Stupid and selfish and _scared. _He wasn't fourteen, but he hadn't learned anything. These years later, he was still making the same mistakes. But this wasn't a maths test, this was life and death…

Michael's life and death.

He didn't want that to matter, but it did. Michael had done more for him than he'd known, than he deserved...

And he was going to die. Because Billy had broken his leg – because Billy had run without looking and hadn't trusted him. Because Billy had screwed up and got himself exiled from his homeland and no one else wanted him but Michael Dorset.

Because Billy was stupid and selfish and scared.

Sitting there, watching Michael, Billy was more scared than ever. Michael's leg was almost unrecognizable; his face was flushed, lips colorless even as the fever burned in his cheeks. The tremors had left him spent, and he'd lapsed into a listless unconsciousness.

Desperate, Billy squeezed his arm. "Michael," he said, trying not to sound terrified. "You can't very well plan my torture while unconscious."

Michael didn't flinch; didn't even twitch.

Billy squeezed harder, breath catching and tears stinging. "Michael," he tried again, his voice hinging now. It was all falling apart, just like before, just like always. Everything good went tits up, nothing gold could ever say. And it was Billy's fault, his fault…

"Please, mate," he said – pleading now. "I reckon I need you to get out of this one. If you don't wake up, Casey and Carson are likely to kill me, and that wouldn't do any of us much good now, would it?"

It was a joke, though not much of one. It didn't do any good. Michael showed no signs of hearing him.

Michael wouldn't, either. Because Michael was dying.

Michael was _dying._

The starkness of it stole his breath, pounding in his ears. He was too terrified to cry, too overwhelmed to talk it out.

He needed to run.

He needed to run now.

He needed to run, to get out of here, to leave this behind. He needed to get out, get out, get _out—_

His fingers were locked on Michael, though. His eyes on Michael's lax face.

He needed to run—

This time, it would be different. Because if he ran, he wouldn't run alone. There was a middle ground, desperate and fleeting, and if the ODS had taught him anything, it was that running wasn't just about him. It was about the people he left behind. It was his easy way out, but for everyone else…

For his family and his friends back in the UK. For Michael.

Billy wasn't the only one with issues, but he was the only one in this for himself.

Billy's stomach clenched, face hardening.

Not anymore.

He needed to run, but this time it would be different. This time, he wouldn't go alone.

It was difficult – painful and trying, and Billy's vision dimmed precariously – but he managed to maneuver himself next to Michael. Pulling the other man up was an exhausting effort, Michael's dead weight proving to be hard to handle and heavy on his shoulders. It was hard to breath, and he found himself trembling with the exertion, but he pressed on anyway.

Finding his way to his feet was even more difficult, and he had to steady himself for a long moment on a nearby tree as he forced out hot breaths through his nose. Everything hurt – agony pulsed through him almost to the point of unconsciousness – but he controlled it. He had to control it.

Pushing it back ruthlessly, he opened his eyes and blinked until his vision cleared. The first step was precarious, teetering and nauseating, but he couldn't think about that. He couldn't think about anything but running.

Getting out.

For Michael.

And Billy started to run.

-o-

Billy ran.

He didn't look back. He didn't think about where he was going. Those were mostly irrelevant details; the only thing that mattered was going.

One foot after the other.

One foot…

The other…

He could no longer remember which leg was broken; they both hurt. Everything hurt. His bones ached, his muscles strung taut with tension. Each step reverberated through to his skull, and his pounding heart almost deafened him as he kept his pace.

Because he couldn't slow down.

He had to run.

He didn't stop to think about the bad guys. He didn't stop think about his own leg. He didn't think about the ODS and their hazing, MI6 and its charges. He didn't think about his lonely flat or the friends he couldn't call anymore or the teammates he didn't know how to trust.

This wasn't about any of that. It wasn't even about him anymore.

It was about Michael.

Safety.

One foot after the other.

Running.

Stumbling, breath stuttering, the foliage blurring together, the pressing weight on his shoulders so much, too much, _too much._

His vision tunneled, his arms felt numb. He was crying, snot clogging his nose even as his head seemed ready to explode.

He didn't think he could make it, but he had to make it.

He_ had to._

He almost tripped, head spinning and he ran into a tree, almost throwing himself off balance. Blindly, he forced himself onward. He could only hope Michael was still on his shoulders, still alive as he trudged forward, wavering precariously as he kept_ running._

Determined as he was, he didn't see Carson and Casey until he ran into them, trying to stumble past them.

"Hey, hey, hey," Carson said, fingers gripping Billy's arm. "Easy, kiddo. Easy."

Billy heard the words, but they didn't make any sense. Nothing made sense. He tried to push on, shaking his head.

Someone firmed stopped him, neatly tugging at the weight on his shoulders.

Billy's brow furrowed, trying to focus his eyes and made out Casey's scowling expression right in front of him. "Need to get him out," he mumbled. "Need to run."

"You need to let go," Casey said tersely, trying to extricate Michael's still form.

Billy lashed out, feeling panicked. He had to run, keep moving, _run._

"Seriously, kid," Carson said, and Billy tried to move his eyes over, tried to see but it was hard to focus. "You don't look so good."

Billy blinked at him, Carson's weathered face actually looked concerned. Like he cared.

Michael, Billy remembered. This was about Michael.

He wet his lips, feeling himself shake. "Snakebite," he said, too aware of his chattering teeth.

Carson frowned. "We'll take care of it," he promised.

"Now let go," Casey said again, more forcefully this time. "Or I'll put you on your ass and take him from you."

Billy turned his eyes, wide and staring back at Casey. The other man looked different. Still angry and terse, but…worried.

Casey was worried.

Carson was worried.

They were here.

They were _here._

Billy had run far enough; he'd done it. He'd got Michael to help. In all his years of running, he'd never actually made it to his destination.

Until now.

The realization settled over him, stealing his remaining strength. There was nothing left to run from. There was nothing left to run to.

All that was left was to let go.

To trust.

With Michael in good hands, Billy's eyes rolled up in his head and he passed out.

-o-

It was supposed to be the easy way out. Giving up, after all, was a coward's way out. Billy had run so long and so hard all to escape the inevitability of consequences.

Yet, the consequences always found him, one way or another.

The cloying blackness was no different. It was not the reprieve he might have hoped for; it was not a reprieve at all. It held him fast, keeping him against his will, and when his instincts screamed to fight, he found himself immobilized.

There was pain, of course, but it didn't matter as much as the rest. As much as the embarrassment and the misery and the guilt. He was a bloody mess. A poor excuse for a spy; a poor excuse for a friend.

No one wanted him. Running away let him pretend like it was his choice, not theirs.

But the thing was, it wasn't true.

Even in the dark, he could still hear Michael's voice. _You might be the best thing that ever happened to this team._

If it didn't seem possible, the flip side was suddenly unavoidable: this team might be the best thing that had ever happened to him.

The blackness took him deeper, and he finally hoped – finally_ trusted _– that he would have a chance to find out.

-o-

When the darkness abated, he realized he was on his back, looking up at a blank tile ceiling. There was a light positioned off to the side, too bright and glaring.

He winced, trying to shy away from its onslaught but the small movement sparked the pain again.

Billy shuddered, inhaling sharply, tears stinging his eyes.

And it all came back to him. The jungle; the running. The broken leg; the snake.

He startled, jolting upward. The sudden exertion made his head spin, and when someone pressed back on his shoulders, he had no choice but to comply. "Whoa, kid," Carson cajoled, holding him down firmly.

Billy worked to focus his eyes, finding it more difficult than it seemed like it should be. When he finally managed to get them to look in the right direction, Carson's face came into view.

He looked tired, but he was smiling – if grimly. "They don't want you to go messing up your leg."

For a second, Billy could only stare. Then, he looked down and saw his leg encompassed by a bulky air cast. He still couldn't quite feel it – the general level of pain was effusive and hard to pinpoint – and he half wondered if the leaden feeling should be disconcerting.

To his side, Casey snorted. "What he means to say is that you've already managed to almost destroy your chances of walking normally again. You may as well lie still in the off chance that these idiot doctors can pull off a miracle."

Billy turned his head, eyes focusing in time to see Casey scowl at him. He was sitting down opposite Carson, slouched and glaring, arms crossed and shoulders squared.

Carson took a deep breath, squeezing his shoulder this time. "They're better than they look," he said. "And this mission seems pretty much ready made for miracles, you know?"

Billy turned his head again, ignoring the growing ache that was fogging everything. He was missing something; he was missing a lot of things. His leg, his fever, his—

His eyes locked on Carson's. "Michael," he said, even though his words sounded garbled. He swallowed and his throat was scratchy but he pressed the word out again regardless. "Michael."

Carson's expression flickered ever so slightly, but then he forced a smile. "You don't need to worry about that, okay?"

But Billy shook his head. He hadn't survived all this – he hadn't done all this – to be placated with platitudes. If he stayed, he was going to stay with all the information.

He wanted to demand that; no, he wanted to cajole that. He wanted to charm and smile and get his way because he _could._

Except he couldn't.

He was too tired. He was too hot. Everything was burning and cold and hurting and…

He shut his eyes, rallying whatever energy he had left. It wasn't much, but when he opened his eyes, he fixed Carson with another stare. "Is he – okay?" he asked, words halting as he tried to work up enough saliva in his mouth. "The – snakebite?"

It was Casey that responded in clipped, terse words. "You just destroyed your leg," he said, matter of fact while Billy rolled his head back. "You have extensive orthopedic surgery ahead of you and you still may never walk again, assuming you haven't sent bone fragments all over your bloodsteam with your antics."

Billy frowned.

"What Casey's trying to say is," Carson interjected purposefully, and Billy turned his head back, feeling his energy wane again, "you've got enough to worry about. You're not out of the woods yet yourself, so we want you to focus on making sure you get through this surgery."

There was something to this, and on some level, Billy understood. He understood that sometimes running was the easy out; sometimes it just made everything worse. It would be ironic, really. If he'd run to save his life and cost himself everything…

But not everything. He gathered a breath, forcing himself to stay awake, to stay steady. To ask: "Michael?"

Carson's shoulders fell. "Didn't know you cared so much, kid."

Of course they didn't. Billy was still a selfish bastard to them. They probably blamed him – they should blame him.

And that was fine. They could hate him; they could leave him out to dry; they could do whatever the hell they bloody wanted, but he had to know. "Please," he asked, pleading now. "Michael?"

Carson looked spent, but Casey joined in again. "Thanks to the fact that you managed to tell us he was bitten before passing out, we were able to expedite his treatment," he explained. His jaw worked, lips going thin. "They narrowed down the species pretty quickly and had enough antivenin to get him started on a drip right away. It seems to be working in that he's alive."

Billy's chest hitched. "But?"

Carson sighed. "But you two were out there for a long time," he said, almost sounding apologetic. "Even if the antivenin keeps him alive, his leg might already be necrotic."

Billy blinked.

"They don't think they'll need to amputate…" Carson trailed off, shrugging.

Amputate.

If it keeps him alive.

Billy had run. He'd given everything he had.

And it wasn't enough.

Casey was still talking; Carson's hand was on his arm. But Billy couldn't hear them; couldn't quite feel them. Everything was slipping away, just like always, and this time Billy didn't even try to hold on.

-o-

Billy had always been scared. He'd thought if he gave an inch, it'd all come crashing down. If he let go, it'd all get away from him.

But this time, it was nothing nearly so climactic.

This time, he'd expected to die, perhaps. To be alone and abandoned.

Not comfortably numb on his back in a hospital bed.

Billy was aware of this fact even before he was aware of much else. Full awareness was slow in coming, and he found himself drifting, mumbling answers to the doctors and nurses, blinking back to sleep before they finished explaining to him what was going on.

He found, in truth, that he didn't care.

He had no energy to care.

Casey and Carson were there from time to time, serious and quiet. They told him it was okay, things were okay, things would get better, and Billy closed his eyes to sleep.

The ceiling changed from one room to the next. The doctors shifted; the nurses came and went. And when Billy found himself awake for more than two minutes, he came to the stark and unsettling revelation that he was going to be okay.

He was awake, alert and indisputably alive.

And alone.

Casey and Carson had come and gone in however much time had passed, more than Billy might have expected, but their jokes were guarded, their friendliness forced even as Billy came in and out of consciousness. If they were scared like Michael said, then this whole mess had probably made things worse. After all, Billy had come out with nothing but a broken leg and Michael was almost dead. The damage from Billy's failings could very well be irreparable. The ODS had granted him a tenuous place on their team. He'd taken that for granted. Now, he could have lost it.

He swallowed hard, and refused to let himself cry. The pain meds were still strong enough to make it hard to focus, harder still to think rationally, but he had to be done with self-pity. If this was his fault, he would accept it.

For Michael.

Sighing, he lolled his head to the side and realized that his new room was not private. There was another bed not far from him, a curtain half pulled around the bottom half, though the head of the bed was exposed.

At first, all Billy could see was a bank of equipment that rivaled his own. The tubes and wires were extensive, and Billy had to wonder what the poor sod had done to end up as Billy's roommate.

But then, he squinted, forcing his brain to function despite the numbness, blinking through the dimness. The figure was familiar.

Michael.

His team leader was laid out, eyes closed and arms positioned at his sides. The pale blue hospital gown was visible under the thin blanket that was folded up to his chest. He had a nasal cannula strung up under his nose, snaking behind his ears and behind his head to an oxygen canister. There was a pair of IVs, and there was a pulse ox monitor clipped to Michael's forefinger that mimicked Billy's own.

It was hard to see, but he caught just a glimpse of Michael's leg, wrapped securely and propped up. With the bandages, it was impossible to see if it was still swollen, if it was necrotic…

But it was still there, which was something.

Sometimes presence alone mattered. If this ordeal had taught him anything, it had taught him that.

Though, lying there, he thought he probably should have learned that lesson years ago, back at MI6, back at university, back when he was fourteen and running away from home. He hadn't, and these were the consequences. His own leg almost mangled beyond use and Michael almost dying.

There were consequences.

He inhaled raggedly. "I'm sorry," he said, voice uneven through the stillness, almost lost in the hum of the machines.

Michael, on the bed next to him, showed no signs of hearing him.

Wetting his lips in futility, Billy pressed on. "Too many people in life have paid dearly for my mistakes," he continued. "I tend not to stick around long enough to see that played out, but I understand it now."

Michael slept on, his chest rising and falling.

Billy's brow creased. "I'm a coward," he admitted. "A coward and a selfish bastard and you should have left me to die. You never should have picked up my file at all."

His eye studied Michael, still trying to understand. Still trying to grapple with the reasons why some men stood their ground and other man ran; why some men prove their mettle in the fire and others melted.

Still trying to decide if it was too late to change.

He nodded. "But you did," he said, throat strained and protesting, but he refused to stop. "And I don't deserve it, but I'd be foolish to deny it any longer."

Because Michael had never left, and Billy had never thought if the other man actually had a choice. Ultimately, it didn't matter.

"So I'm staying," he said, the emotions churning painfully in his chest. "Now. Always. For as long as you want me."

Michael didn't reply, and Billy sighed again, eyes drifting back to the ceiling as his consciousness started to ebb. He'd stay. Until there was nothing left, he would stay.

-o-

In the time that followed, Billy found himself inexorably awake. The doctors scaled back on the painkillers, leaving Billy more uncomfortable and painfully conscious more often than not. He quickly became aware that the hazy visits from his teammates were actually well timed visits, prompt and punctual. In fact, he was surprised to find that Carson and Casey hardly left during the daytime hours, and were already on a first name basis with all the nurses in the ward.

"We're just glad the docs finally let you two camp out together," Carson said, tipping his chair back.

"We're also glad that you're not on heavy duty painkillers anymore," Casey added dourly. "You have a tendency to ramble when your faculties are compromised. I prefer you surly and petulant."

Billy managed to laugh a little. He was sitting up in bed. His leg was more cumbersome now, but having started back on real food again had done wonders for his sense of awareness. "My apologies, then," he said. "I'm afraid it takes a bit to loosen my tongue, but once it gets going, it is hard pressed to stop."

"Well, you better reteach it, then," Casey snipped. "Or I may have to break your other leg just on the principle."

Carson rolled his eyes. "I think we can spare the kid from more physical harm for the time being," he said. "I mean, he's still got months of recovery ahead of him for this little stunt."

Months. Billy was still wrapping his mind around that. Once he was fully conscious, the doctors had outline his injury and his prognosis. They'd included an explicit explanation of the damaged he'd done during his last, apparently ill-advised run. The fact was, he was lucky that they expected him to regain full mobility. A little longer and he might have destroyed the bone beyond repair.

Which also explained why it hurt so much.

But that was neither here nor there. He had more pressing concerns. Such as Michael waking up, such as Casey and Carson who seemed almost…sociable.

Maybe it was all for Michael's benefit, but there was a slow shift that Billy felt. Yes, they were still interminably mean to him. Casey insulted him and Carson made fun of him, but Billy could see the understated fear in Casey's eyes, the inexplicable trust in Carson's.

Something had changed.

Or rather, something was changing.

It was a tenuous thing, he knew. There was the possibility of something better.

The possibility of something worse.

If Michael didn't wake up…

"Kid, we told you, the docs think Michael's going to be fine," Carson said, not for the first time.

Billy startled a bit, eyes darting away from Michael guiltily.

Casey shook his head. "You saw his leg, even," he said. "It's rebounding fine."

"He'll be up and at 'em before you are," Carson said, a little gleeful.

"That much is a given," Casey said. "I'd take on a poisonous Bothrops snake any day over breaking my leg."

Carson snorted. "Not sure he had a choice in that," he muttered.

Billy worked his jaw. "Truth be told, I'd opt for neither if given my druthers," he said. "And really, they're both my fault. I'm the one who broke my leg, which is why Michael got bit in the first place."

"Yeah, and we accidentally tipped off the bad guys," Carson said. "We can play the blame game, kid. And we'll all lose."

"Besides," Casey said. "You ran for a mile with your leg being basically snapped in two. That's…impressive."

From someone else, that might have been lip service. From Casey…

Billy laughed, shocked. "Casey Malick, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

At that, Casey's scowl deepened and he slunk low in his chair. "I've been trapped in this miserable hospital too long," he muttered. "It's deadening my senses."

Carson smirked. "He means to say, you proved yourself, man," he said. "I mean, much longer and Michael wouldn't have made it. What you did, carrying him like that?" He shook his head. "That's hero's work. You saved his life."

Billy's eyes turned to Michael. His chest felt constricted, his stomach taut. They meant it, of course. And maybe there was some truth to that.

But it was praise he didn't want. Praise he didn't need. Because the fact was, Michael had saved his life first.

Billy had just been returning the favor.

Then he looked at Carson, at Casey. Together and bantering. Like Billy was one of them.  
_  
You just have to give them time.  
_  
Billy settled back, realizing for the first time that not all consequences were bad after all.

But Michael had to wake up.

Billy's entire existence hinged like it never had before. For Billy, for Carson and Casey. For the ODS.

Michael had to wake up.

-o-

Then, Michael did.

Really, it was almost like clockwork. If Billy hadn't seen the other man lying prostrate for days on end, he might have thought the bastard had timed it that way.

But as it was, Michael woke up right after visiting hours, when Casey and Carson had gone back to the motel for the night and the doctors had just finished their rounds.

At first, Billy hardly noticed, too busy reading the only English book Carson had managed to find in the entire hospital. It was a far cry from Shakespeare, but given how hit and miss his Spanish was, it was better than nothing.

He was turning the page when he heard a movement.

He glanced to the door, expecting a nurse to come shuffling through, when he realized Michael's eyes were open.

And looking straight at him.

"Hey," Michael said, voice sounding worse than Billy. He made a face before trying again. "So, hospital?"

Billy blinked, still too shocked to speak. Because he'd been waiting and pining and hoping, and it had happened. Michael was awake. And not just awake, but alert and oriented and—

"Are you okay?" Michael asked.

Finally, Billy laughed. "You're the one who took a week to wake up."

Michael frowned, looking thoughtful. "That bad?"

Billy could only snort. He thought about the early reports, about the risk of organ failure and necrotic tissue too deep to save. He thought about the prolonged unconsciousness while Michael's body worked with the antivenin to bounce back. He thought about carrying Michael out over his shoulders.

He thought about how it almost hadn't been enough.

"Yeah," he finally managed to reply. "That bad."

"Must have been some snake," Michael mused. He turned his head, looking down at his leg. "Doesn't feel that bad."

"It's healing pretty well," Billy said. "By the time we got you here, though, your fever was at dangerous levels. So much damage…"

From the venom and the fever and_ everything._

Michael settled his head back down with a small shrug. "Must have kicked it by now, though," he said, nonchalant. Then his gaze fixed on Billy again. "What about you? How's the leg?"

Billy scrunched his nose in utter incredulity. "You almost died."

"Yeah, and from the look of that cast, it looks like you almost hurt your leg permanently," he said. He tilted his head critically. "We kept you off it for the most part, so how did it get so bad?"

Taken aback, Billy felt suddenly sheepish and self conscious. "Doesn't matter."

But Michael was not one to be placated. "No," he said, pushing himself up just a little. "What happened?"

Billy sighed. "I carried you out," he blurted.

Michael seemed to process that for a moment. "On _that _leg?"

Billy shrugged.

"That was stupid," Michael said. "You break it that badly, and you may never walk right again." He turned, searching for his call button. "We should talk to your doctor about—"

"It's fine," Billy interrupted emphatically.

Michael looked at him, dubious.

"I mean, I've got a bit of recovery ahead, but it should be fine," Billy clarified.

Michael settled down, moderately mollified. "Still stupid," he said. "You should have waited."

Before, he might have left well enough alone. But Billy wasn't aiming for well enough anymore. If he was a part of this team, he was_ a part of this team._

He shook his head. "No," he said flatly. "You were dying. Running was the only option."

"Casey and Carson were coming," Michael argued.

"And they would have been_ too late,_" Billy said. "Good God, man. You do realize that a single snake bite had you unconscious for a week? That you almost lost your leg? That you very nearly_ died _because you were pissing around trying to save _me_?"

The outburst was more than Billy had expected, and by the end, his voice was raised and his chest was heaving. It left him spent, nervous and shaky and sweaty.

Michael, on the other bed, was frustratingly calm. For a long moment, he regarded Billy silently before nodding. "Okay."

Billy grunted, staring at Michael in disbelief. "Okay?"

Michael nodded again. "Okay."

"How the bloody hell is_ any _of this okay?" Billy exploded.

Michael shrugged. "I knew you'd get me out."

It took Billy a moment to realize what he'd said. Then, he made a face. "What?"

"I trusted you," Michael said.

"You – wait," Billy said, trying to make sense of it. "But _why?_"

Michael was entirely nonplussed. "Because I've known since the beginning what you're capable of," he said. "You just needed a chance, just like the rest of us. Given that chance, you'd rise. I'd say you did that – and more."

Billy continued to stare, dumbfounded.

"Well, that and I was dying from a poisonous snakebite, so I didn't have a lot of other options at the time," Michael said. "But mostly, I knew you were a man with something to prove. And you did."

It was that simple, then. Billy never would have imagined. Everything else in his life was endlessly complicated. An interminable, impossible mess that he didn't even know how to start working out.

But with Michael, with the ODS, it was simple.

They each had their issues and their foibles. Apart, those things could destroy them.

Together…maybe they were capable of the impossible.

Billy blinked rapidly and blew out a breath, holding Michael's eye contact unyieldingly. "You sure that's enough?"

Michael's mouth quirked into a smile. Tired and pale, there was something content in his expression, knowing in his eyes. "You'd be surprised how well it's worked for us all these years."

Billy thought about Casey's faint praise, about Carson's friendly nudges. About Michael's unwavering acceptance. Yes, there were lies and pranks and insults. But there was more than that.

There was more.

What exactly, Billy wasn't sure. But he knew for a fact he wanted to stay long enough to find out.

Pressing his lips together, he smiled. "Well," he said, a little slow but increasingly certain. "Give me a few years and I think I'd like to find out for myself."

Michael's grin widened. "You got a deal."

-o-

By the time Billy was cleared to fly, his leg was still a mess. He was under strict orders to consult with an orthopedic surgeon to monitor the progress of his leg and resume an intensive therapy regimen when the cast was finally removed. He was looking at weeks of inactivity, months out of the field.

In all honesty, it was daunting. Billy wasn't one for sitting idle, so the prospect of finding himself cooped up behind a desk was not favorable.

Then again, many things about his life were not favorable. Decommissioned and deported, he was still a mess, and nearly maiming himself permanently was just another item in a long list of stupid moves.

That said, this time, he wasn't alone.

Michael had been in the hospital for a spell, though he'd been cleared to leave a few days before Billy. Even after that, the ODS had been constant visitors, manipulating the staff and keeping him well occupied if not thoroughly entertained. Michael was good at dubbing Spanish TV with nonsensical English parodies. Carson had a flair for somehow finding the best food and the prettiest nurses to bring it to them. Casey…

Well, Casey came and didn't try to kill him, which Billy counted as a win.

In all, he really wasn't alone. And if sitting at a desk wasn't favorable, realizing he had a place where he belonged really was. If the prospect of it all made him want to run, he was beginning to realize he had more reasons than ever to stay.

In the spygame. In America. With the CIA. With the ODS.

Billy may have broken his leg, but somehow with one mission, he'd healed a whole lot more than that.


End file.
